


I'm [not] Supposed to Love You

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Biting, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Choking, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, I know i'm forgetting something and i apologize for that, I swear the other characters will be in this more, Insecure Patrick, Insecurity, M/M, NSFW, Oh look at that, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Pining, Pre-hiatus, Rough Sex, Spanking, it's getting kinkier, oblivious pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:34:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 110,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6973339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who's up for some Peterick angst?</p><p>So, imagine if you will, Pete and Patrick are in a friends-with-benefits relationship. No strings attached sex, yeah? And, of course, we need the cliche that Patrick's head over heels for Pete but won't say anything about it. And Pete's just an oblivious guy who's getting some awesome sex.</p><p>Everything's fine. Patrick's fine. Until he realizes that he's on the road to heartbreak. And the only way to avoid it is to make Pete hurt him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tell Me Where We Go From Here

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to work archive yet. My name's Charlotte and I've never written a Peterick fanfic in my life.
> 
> With that in mind, this is me taking my own post into my own hands because no one said they wanted to write it but quite a few said they wanted to read it. This is unbeta'd and written by me saying "screw it" and sitting down at a computer for quite a few hours until this is done.
> 
> (though, to be honest, i think getting archive to cooperate took longer than writing that)
> 
> More honesty, I don't know what year this takes place in. This chapter is more of a prologue anyway. Bigger problem is that I don't know what year the rest of it will take place in. Just that it's pre-hiatus.
> 
> ...dear god i'm so inexperienced
> 
> Regardless of all this, enjoy!

Patrick’s greatest fear has always been silence. He’s never understood how people so lovingly embrace it, treated it as a friend or lover to hold them when they needed time to think. The way he sees it, it’s the silence that screams at him and shouts “Alone! Alone! You’re so alone!” It’s the quiet and calm that laughs so loudly in his ears until he can’t help but wish to crush the intangible foe with any note- to dare it to see which is more easily shattered. It’s the kind of noise he’d do anything to escape. 

 

Maybe that’s why he’s so desperate to fill his life with chaos.

 

Wasn’t it chaos to place all his bets on one band of guys he barely knew?

 

Isn’t it chaos to risk his sanity and security by handing it over to kids each night in the shape of words and his own voice? 

 

Isn’t it chaos to become best friends with Pete Wentz-  _ the  _ Pete Wentz- and let him drag Patrick all over the country and call Patrick his golden ticket? Isn’t Pete Wentz himself the very definition of chaos?

 

And, most of all, isn’t it chaos to let that very same Pete Wentz take his wrist after a show and drag him to a darkened alley outside of the venue, to let Pete Wentz shove him against a wall and hold him there, to let Pete Wentz look at him with darkened brown eyes and whisper his name like a prayer?

 

It doesn’t feel like chaos.

 

“Fuck, Patrick...your voice tonight, man. I just- your  _ voice _ . You have no idea what it does to me.”

 

Patrick doesn’t understand what’s happening but, just this once, he doesn’t care as much as he should. He licks his lips, trying to formulate some kind of response. Pete’s eyes darken to a dangerous shade of brown, almost as dark as the night around them. Patrick shudders and presses further against the wall at his back, brick scraping his thin t-shirt. Somewhere on the way here, he can’t remember when, Pete had forced Patrick out of his hoodie and the chill of the night air reminds him of that.

 

Pete doesn’t allow Patrick’s futile attempt at placing distance between them to continue, not content until just the fabrics of their shirts are all that’s keeping them apart. Patrick swallows loudly and Pete’s predatory leer only takes on an amused edge.

 

“W-what’s going on? Pete, what are you doing? Is...is this…”

 

_ Is this what I want it to be? _

 

Whatever Patrick is going to say next is devoured by the older boy in a sudden and desperate kiss, their lips colliding in a battle. Patrick, stunned, widens his eyes until he feels Pete’s hands slide behind his back, tugging him closer. He groans and lets his eyes slip shut as Pete’s tongue dances along his plump lower lip, teasing and sending thrilling sparks down the singer’s spine. 

 

“Pete,” he mutters. Pete emits a throaty laugh and pulls back, a string of saliva refusing to let them separate completely. 

 

“Well, it seems like you’re stuck between a rock,” Pete begins grinding against Patrick, “and a very hard place.”

 

Indeed, Pete’s erection presses against Patrick’s with each shameless thrust of the other boy’s hips. The friction causes him to gasp and his fingers grasp desperately onto Pete’s tight t-shirt.

 

“Ha...yeah, clever,” he gets out between each breathless pant. Pete merely laughs again before moving closer, his breath tickling Patrick’s ear. As his tongue darts out against his earlobe, Patrick has to repress a whimper. He moves his hands and presses them flat against Pete’s chest. Even as Pete continues to rock back and forth against him and even as the pleasure builds inside him- pleasure and hope and desperation and something else he dare not name- Patrick forces himself to look into the other’s eyes. “What is this, Pete? What are we doing?”

 

Pete refuses to stop but Patrick catches the way his eyes slam shut, the way Pete’s muscles tighten and the way his breath hitches. Pete leans until his head is against Patrick’s shoulder, his dark hair brushing against the younger boy’s jaw. 

 

“I just...I don’t...It’s nothing, Patrick. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything. Just. Just let me…” And Pete’s voice is in the place between a whisper and a breath, barely audible to Patrick’s ears. His hips continue to snap forward against Patrick’s, moving of their own accord. Patrick lets his head fall back against the wall behind him.

 

_ It doesn’t mean anything _

 

Yeah. Okay. He...He should have expected that. Pete doesn’t feel the way that Patrick did, the way Patrick has felt since Pete had wandered into his house and saw a singer instead of a drummer. Pete doesn’t want anything more from this. Patrick can work with that.

 

The singer wishes he could say that time slows down as he makes his choice and contemplates his decisions. He wishes that he has the time to think of the consequences. Instead, time speeds up. Pete’s breath becomes hot and wet over Patrick’s pulse, whispering every desire that Patrick has ever had.

 

“Just let me touch you. I want...I need to touch somebody and you...watching you up there drives me crazy. I want you. I need you right now, Trick.”

 

Time speeds up. And Patrick still has his hands flat against Pete’s chest. He imagines he can feel the other boy’s heartbeat pounding against his hands. Slowly, Patrick lets his hands become fists, bunching the thin material of the shirt in his hands. He takes slow breaths, so out of place with the speed surrounding him.

 

There’s music in the background, loud music blaring from inside the place they just played. The beat matches Patrick’s sporadic pulse when Pete pulls up and looks into Patrick’s eyes. They’re drowning in lust and need and maybe a fear of rejection. Patrick can’t imagine Pete would ever fear that Patrick would say no to him.

 

“Trick?” 

 

It’s a question that Patrick readily answers.

 

This kiss is more gentle than the first, Patrick’s lips covering Pete’s instead of the other way around. Patrick’s lips part and a ghost of a breath warms Pete’s soft lips. The older boy lets out a breath of his own, shaky as Patrick’s hands. 

 

They’re only millimeters apart and Patrick’s eyes are shut when he repeats what Pete had said before. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

 

It’s more than a clarification but Pete nods anyway. “Yeah. Yeah, obviously. It’s...It’s just a thing, y’know.”

 

“Obviously,” Patrick says, his dry tone distorted by his panting breaths. His eyes open slowly and he meets Pete’s gaze. “Yeah. Obviously.”

 

If Pete senses the hurt there, he doesn’t have time to say anything. Patrick’s hands are suddenly at Pete’s shoulders and he’s shoving the boy away. Pete stumbles back, his eyebrows furrowed together.

 

“Trick?” He asks. Patrick doesn’t respond but Pete’s eyes widen when Patrick drops to his knees before him. 

 

_ It doesn’t mean anything  _ and those words play through Patrick’s head like a chord he’s trying to fit into a song it has no right to be in. It’s too out of place, too forced, too demanding of his attention.

 

It’s too irrelevant as he undoes Pete’s jeans with a strong determination. Every thought leaves his mind once he pries the front of Pete’s too skinny jeans apart and is met with the bulge in his boxers, inches from his face. Patrick exhales over it, his breath forming a new cloud in the cold. It ghosts over Pete’s erection. The bassist shudders.

 

“P-Patrick…” he whimpers and it shoots straight into Patrick’s pants, somehow making them tighter. Patrick whines and places a hand over his own crotch, rocking into it as his face nuzzles into Pete’s hip. Pete jerks forward and suddenly Patrick’s crowded back against the wall as Pete leans against it, braced on his arms. Patrick looks up. Pete looks down. Their eyes lock and Patrick’s never felt more exposed.

 

“Pete, c’mon, man. You gotta give me room,” he breathes out, reaching to press against Pete’s hips with both hands, until he’s a fair distance away. He watches as Pete nods, desperate and obedient. 

 

“Yeah...yeah, just...will you do something?” he asks, his voice begging. Patrick’s own breath hitches and he licks his lips.

 

“Of course,” he chokes out. Neither of them speak as Patrick pulls Pete’s underwear down, slow enough that Patrick can pass his hesitation off as teasing. Patrick determinedly focuses his gaze on the skin that starts to show, the warm tan shade of Pete’s hips and thighs as the jeans and briefs get shoved down past his knees. He stares at Pete’s knees for a while, feeling the gravel digging into his own, before looking right before him.

 

Pete’s cock is hard; the tip is blushing red. Precome leaks out from the slit and Patrick reaches to spread it around. Pete’s gasp makes him smile.

 

It’s not the first time Patrick’s done this but it’s the first time he’s done it with Pete so maybe that’s why he takes his time, wrapping a hand around the shaft and leaning forward to lick a long strip from the base to the top. He repeats this action until Pete’s hands are in his hair, knocking his hat to the side and urging him forward. 

 

“Oh fuck, Patrick, how are you so good at this?” Pete asks. Patrick’s only answer is to press an open mouthed kiss against Pete’s shaft, flicking his tongue out in little laps. Pete’s grip in his hair grows tighter and Patrick knows he can’t keep putting it off for long. To be honest, he doesn’t really want to. He pulls back and licks his lips again, as if he’s trying to drag the flavor of Pete’s skin into his mouth.

 

“I think I’m gonna blow you now,” he says to Pete’s dick, his cheeks burning even as Pete chuckles above him.

 

“That...yeah, that sounds great,” Pete says breathlessly. He strokes Patrick’s hair. It’s a loving gesture, too kind and soft for something that doesn’t matter. Patrick uses it to pretend that it’s okay to take Pete into his mouth, to feel him heavy and hot against his tongue, to wrap his lips closer around Pete’s cock and give a testing suck. 

 

The reaction is immediate. Pete’s hips snap forward roughly and Patrick gags as the cock hits the back of his throat. Pete pulls back, allowing Patrick to recover. 

 

“Sorry, I- Just. Your mouth,” Pete says as means of explanation. Patrick doesn’t get it but he brushes it off and focuses on the sight before him. Pete’s rigid cock is still there, coated in a layer of Patrick’s saliva. He goes in slower this time, taking the cock as far as he can. He can hear Pete’s breaths grow labored, can hear him gasping Patrick’s name. It makes Patrick brave enough to start bobbing his head up and down, to lift his hand and wrap it around the base. He strokes in time with his bobbing, twisting his wrist the way he likes.

 

If the bucking of his hips is anything to go by, Pete likes it too. They share no rhythm and they have no pattern. It’s just Pete thrusting deeper into Patrick’s mouth and, though the lack of beat would usually piss him off, Patrick finds himself shoving a hand into his own pants and jerking himself in the same way. The second his hand touches his cock, he releases a loud moan around the dick in his mouth.

 

“Fuck! PatrickPatrickPatrick…” Pete repeats at the vibration. His thrusts grow more erratic. Patrick replays the sound of Pete’s desperate voice in his head as he moves his hand to cup around Pete’s balls, scraping them lightly with the dull edge of his nails. Pete cries out and the hand Patrick had on his own cock squeezes a little tighter, moves a little quicker. He can feel the shift in Pete’s movements, the switch from barely controlled pleasure to completely uncontrolled lust. Patrick drags it out, grazing his teeth across the skin in his mouth and pulling a soft mewl from Pete’s lips. He takes him deeper, lets him fuck his mouth harder. The hand in his hair is pulling out strands but Patrick doesn’t find it in himself to care.

 

Pete’s thighs begin to tremble and Patrick lays a comforting hand in the dip between his hip and groin, pressing in lightly with his thumb, encouraging as he sucks. Pete’s voice has already grown louder but, when Patrick digs his blunt nails into his skin, he comes with a harsh and screaming cry. His come stains the inside of Patrick’s mouth as the younger boy swallows, sucking and stroking until Pete’s trembling before him.  

 

Patrick pulls away and Pete falls to his knees before him, his breaths ragged and limbs shaking. Patrick’s still working his own cock when Pete leans forward to rest his forehead against Patrick’s.

 

“No, no, I should,” he whispers and Patrick’s confused until he feels Pete’s hand sliding down alongside his, a tight fit even though Patrick doesn’t wear pants half as tight as Pete’s. 

 

It feels too intimate, even after the act Patrick had just performed on Pete. There’s fumbling and gasping breaths and Patrick has Pete’s eyes right in front of him. There’s no escape.

 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Pete mutters as he shoves Patrick’s hand to the side. Patrick pulls his hand away, feeling shameful until Pete’s warm hand wraps around his cock. He lets out a low groan and allows his mind to remain vacant for now.

 

Pete’s thumb slides over the head of Patrick’s cock and he gives rough strokes that cause Patrick to gasp and beg as he nears the edge. He’s still so young, so sensitive, so desperate and, though he knows Pete must be able to see this somehow,  it only encourages Patrick to be more vocal. Heat grows low in his stomach and Pete gives him a lazy grin as he twists his wrist around his cock. Patrick lets out a desperate cry and, if it’s Pete’s name, neither of them say anything about it.

 

Patrick tenses and feels a rush of warmth race throughout his body, fast and hot as he spills all over Pete’s hand. His throat hurts and he knows he must have shouted- ungraceful and embarrassing- but Pete’s gentle as Patrick rides out his orgasm, giving feather-like strokes as Patrick fades into the pleasure pressing into his skull and groin. He doesn’t think too much about it as he slumps forward and closes his eyes.

 

Patrick takes deep breaths and, when he opens his eyes, he finds himself leaning against Pete, his head now on the other’s shoulder. He’s curled towards him as if he’s seeking comfort. Perhaps, in a way, he is. Slowly, so slowly Patrick’s not quite sure it’s happening at first, Pete begins to pull away. Patrick suddenly becomes aware of the sticky mess in his pants, of the way his knees hurt, and the way his jaw is killing him. He’s sensitive to everything as Pete moves further back, until the only parts of them that are touching are there knees pressed together on the ground.

 

Maybe he can blame it on the post-orgasmic haze. Maybe he can blame it on his boyish urges. Maybe, if he’s honest, he can blame it on the way that Pete’s looking at him and the way it makes Patrick feel. Patrick doesn’t think about what he’ll blame it on, though, when he leans forward to give Pete a kiss.

 

Pete pulls away before Patrick’s lips can make contact.

 

“No. No, Patrick, stop,” he says sternly, reaching to hold Patrick by the shoulders, keeping him away. Patrick hates how he can’t look away from Pete’s eyes, can’t stop his heart from hammering against his chest. 

 

“If we’re going to do this, Trick, it can’t be like that. It could never be like that,” Pete says, and it almost sounds as if he regrets it. He removes his hands from Patrick and reaches to the side to  find Patrick’s hat, fallen and forgotten in the midst of their lust. He holds it out like a peace offering. Patrick doesn’t take it but it gives him something to stare at.

 

Patrick knows he’ll hate himself for doing so but he asks the question anyway. “Why not?”

 

Pete stiffens, if only for a second, before relaxing in defeat. “Think about it, Trick. We’re in a band. We’re gonna have the world watching us one day and the world’s not so forgiving about two guys doing stuff like that. Besides, with all the touring and fans and assured hectic lifestyle that’s bound to happen, throwing in an in-band relationship would be too...chaotic.”

 

_ Chaotic _

 

Patrick almost laughs. But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the hat Pete’s holding, accepts this fragment of a relationship, and holds it close to his chest.

 

“It’d be too chaotic, yeah,” Patrick says, his voice hoarse. He doesn’t meet Pete’s eyes. “And I’ve never been a fan of chaos.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Something There That Wasn't There Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Year Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think I figured out the timeline? The previous chapter was definitely Van Days, but near the end. This one's a year or so later- however much time is needed for this to make sense. I suck at timeline but imagine they're on tour and have a bus now. FUTCT is out, at least. 
> 
> I apologize. But, this is fanfiction so I'm convincing myself I can get away with it. 
> 
> BTW, I tried to make it so that the paragraphs weren't so spread out. Let's hope it works.
> 
> And, yes, the chapter title was taken from Beauty and the Beast
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, comments, and bookmarked. You're the best. Here's the next chapter. Like last time, it's unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

Like all the worst things in life, it becomes something they won’t talk about. Sure, they’ll ponder it and dance around the subject or grow awkwardly close to giving it a name but Patrick knows better than to bring it up in the blatant way he’s often tempted to.

The words rest there, though, behind his teeth and beneath his tongue. A thousand ways to ask Pete for more and a thousand ways to ask him to stop. In the year that passes, there are days where these words multiply and he feels that he may burst from the overwhelming emotion Pete Wentz gives him.

More recently, though, he finds that the words decrease. Each time Pete looks at him with darkened eyes, he can barely nod. He can’t imagine speaking. He’s not even sure what he would say if he could. 

 _“I can’t do this anymore.”_  

 _“This isn’t enough.”_  

 _“This is too much.”_  

 _“I hate this but I love-”_  

Patrick’s broken out of his thoughts by the sound of his bunk’s curtain being pulled to the side, a soft screech that always sends shivers down Patrick’s spine. 

The shivers only intensify when he sees Pete on the other side, looking at him with eyes that broadcast his emotions. Patrick doesn’t speak because he doesn’t know how; Pete doesn’t speak because he doesn’t need to. They both know what he’s saying with those eyes. 

The words in Patrick’s mouth make themselves known with a painful vengeance, placing a lump in his throat and a sour taste in the back of his mouth. 

 _“I love you, Pete.”_  

He could never say those words so he does the next best thing. He sighs and backs towards the wall. Always backed against a wall. 

Pete grins and crawls in with him, yanking the curtain shut once he’s in completely. Patrick’s only glad it’s dark enough that Pete doesn't see how Patrick doesn’t smile back 

<><><> <><><> <><><> 

“Ah! P-Pete, please.” 

It’s still dark and Patrick can barely see the way Pete smirks but he can definitely hear the way he chuckles, soft and low because the other guys are sleeping but that doesn’t mean they can’t wake up and that thought alone causes Patrick to bite his lip. 

“Trick..ah...Trick, I can’t _stand_ you, you’re so good...shit…” 

More moans, more grinding. There’s no room in a bunk for anything other than lazy hand jobs, messy blowjobs, or- when they’re particularly impatient- rubbing against each other like horny teens. Patrick should feel embarrassed by the way he’s thrusting his hips desperately to meet Pete’s but he really, really doesn’t. Besides, Pete’s acting just as needy. 

They’d been at it for a while and Patrick knows they’re both close. Pete’s erratic breaths take the place of their words and, aside from the muted whine Patrick releases, that’s all the sound to be heard. Patrick’s hips snap up just as Pete’s snap down and he throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as his back arches. 

“Pete, Pete, _please_.” 

The sound of Pete’s answering laugh would make Patrick hit him if he weren’t so close to coming in his pants. He settles for forcing his eyes open, planning to throw a death glare. 

Pete’s hand snakes up Patrick’s shirt. His fingers find a perky nipple and Patrick forgets all about glaring. Pete rubs at Patrick’s nipple, playing and toying with it until Patrick’s writhing breathlessly beneath him. 

“Ah, ah, P-Pete, I can’t...Pete!”

Pete pinches the nipple and thrusts down just as Patrick comes, staining his pants and biting his lip to keep from shouting. Pete ignores it, grunting and grinding against Patrick, causing the boy to whine in sensitivity. When Pete finally comes with a shaky exhale, he falls on top of Patrick with a satisfied sigh.

Moments pass where they catch their breath. Seconds pass where Patrick can reflect on what happened, on what Pete had said when he had crawled into the bunk, what he always says whenever Patrick consentingly spreads his legs or pulls off his shirt.

_“Trick, I fucking love you.”_

Patrick knows he doesn’t mean it- he can’t mean it- but they’re still nice words to hear. Even if he only hears them when Pete and he are lying in the dark, naked together. It’s funny, Patrick thinks, how he’s most exposed when Pete can’t see. He wonders if Pete does that on purpose.

“Stop thinking, Trick. You’re tense and it’s making for a very uncomfortable pillow.”

Pete’s mumbled words yank Patrick from his thoughts and into the bunk where Pete is still on top of him, still catching his breath, still calling him _Trick_ …

Pete only ever calls him Trick when he’s pretending to love him, as if he’s trying to make the Patrick he fucks different from the one he sees every day. It makes Patrick’s stomach turn.

“You’re not going back to your bunk?” Patrick asks in a whisper, the rest of his voice caught somewhere in his throat. He’s trying to get back to being _Patrick,_ to treating Pete like a friend because that’s all he really is. Pete’s not making it easy with the way he’s shifting and nuzzling into Patrick’s neck as he tries to get comfortable.

“Why would I do that when I’ve got a perfectly good Pat-pillow right here?” Pete teases and Patrick can actually feel his shit-eating grin. Almost as if it’s a cue, Patrick can grin tiredly and punch Pete half-heartedly in the gut as he yanks the blankets over them both.

“Asshole, you know I don’t like being called that,” he says. “I should kick you out just for that.”

Pete shifts a bit more until he’s only half on Patrick, using his shoulder as a pillow. “Oh, whatever. You love me too much for that, Patrick.”

It’s only the teasing tone that keeps Patrick from choking on his breath; it's the use of his full name that prevents him from agreeing. He settles, instead, on wrapping his arms around Pete to keep him from falling out of the bed, nothing more than a friendly courtesy. Besides, it’s not like Pete isn’t clinging to Patrick.

“I must have pretty rotten luck in love, then,” Patrick responds, only half-joking. Pete laughs and lifts his head just long enough to press a consolation kiss to Patrick’s chin.

“Love ya, Trick,” Pete sing-songs, burying his head back in the comfort of Patrick’s neck.

Patrick imagines that he can say something. He imagines that he can feel hurt or angered or offended. Instead, he shuts his eyes and mouth. And, as Pete wraps himself around Patrick and begins to fall into his first sleep of the week, Patrick allows himself to pretend that all of this is real.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Pete is gone. He only has to stretch out and feel the cold emptiness beside him. He only has to listen for the sound of his own breathing, for the silence that tells him he’s _alone_.

Patrick keeps his eyes shut as he rolls his shoulders, aching from the awkward position he had been forced into when Pete had been in the bunk with him. It aches in a way that’s gonna suck when he tries to play guitar later in the day but it also aches in a way that tells him Pete was there. It tells him that he doesn’t ache for no reason.

As he forces himself to become more aware and more awake, Patrick listens carefully to the noises in the bus. It’s habit, now, to listen and guess when- and why- Pete had left. Usually, Patrick can hear him bouncing around in the lounge, bothering everyone else. Those are the days that Patrick knows Pete left at night because he wasn’t going to get any sleep anyway. Those mornings, Pete runs on over exaggerated energy in the form of coffee and going past the point of no return in sleep deprivation. Other days, Patrick will hear nothing. Those days terrify him. It means that Pete’s cooped up in his own bunk, listening to dark songs and penning darker lyrics. It means that Pete had to leave because his thoughts were too loud and he couldn’t bring himself to wake Patrick up- no matter how many times Patrick has said he doesn’t mind.

Of course, sometimes he’ll hear Pete’s gentle breaths brushing along Patrick’s collarbone, caressing him even in his sleep. Sometimes, he’ll hear Pete rustling about a few centimeters away, telling Patrick to let him sleep. Those days are the best days but they’re few and far between. Patrick’s learned not to hope for those.

So. Patrick listens. He hears someone talking up front with the driver- it sounds like Andy. He hears someone yanking shut the curtains to their bunk; from the direction, it sounds like Joe.

Patrick hears nothing to tell him that Pete is awake.

Cue the terror.

Patrick disentangles himself from the blankets with one hand as the other hurries to shove his curtains open. Eventually, he’s free enough to roll out of the bunk, cursing as he slams to the ground ungracefully. Someone- definitely Joe- shouts for everybody to shut up because he’s trying to make a call. Patrick ignores him as he stands, prepared to rush to Pete’s bunk.

“Goddamnit, Pete, I told you-” Patrick’s typical rant is already leaving his lips as he turns towards the other man’s bunk. It’s cut short once he catches sight of the figure standing a few feet away from him, blocking the light from the lounge. He squints, just to make sure that he’s seeing it right. He doesn’t have his glasses on yet, after all. It really could be anyone.

But he knows that if he can recognize that figure in the darkened air of his bunk then he’d recognize it anywhere. 

“I didn’t even do anything yet,” Pete says, confusion staining his words.

“I-” Patrick furrows his eyebrows together. His eyes flicker from Pete’s bunk back to the man himself. He shuts his mouth, thinking, before shaking his head and giving an exasperated sigh as a response. “Whatever. You’re usually really fucking loud in the morning. Why couldn’t I hear you?”

Pete seems even more confused now, if his frown is any indication. “Yeah, okay, it’s so not morning anymore. You sleep like the dead, dude. I’m pretty sure it’s a bit past noon by now.”

Patrick blinks. “And no one thought to wake me up?”

Pete’s laugh is a nice sound but not the answer Patrick wants for a serious question. Patrick raises an eyebrow and Pete quiets down to a smug smile. “Oh, we thought about it. It’s just that, ya know, you’re kind of a grump if someone else wakes you up. A terrifying grump. And, as awesome as ‘death by Patrick Stump’ sounds, we kinda decided we need all the original members for this tour. And possibly every other tour after.”

It...kinda makes sense, Patrick supposes. He still runs his hands down his face and sighs to at least make it seem like it was a stupid point. When he’s done, he glares half-heartedly at Pete. He shoves his hand out and narrows his eyes. Pete doesn’t seem to understand.

“My glasses,” Patrick says, finally. “You took my glasses last night and didn’t give them back.”

Any other day, he’d tag an insulting name onto the end with a teasing tone to make sure that Pete wasn’t really offended. But just referencing the night before has Patrick glaring at the ground with bright red cheeks. He doesn’t trust himself to say anymore than he needs to. Pete laughs again and, really, someone needs to let him know that a laugh is not an acceptable answer to...to really anything Patrick says within the first half hour he’s awake.

“I took them out of the bed with me this morning. Didn’t want you to roll over and crush them. Then one of us would really be dead,” Pete explains, turning and walking out into the lounge. Patrick follows, grumbling under his breath.

“Ah, here they are!” Pete exclaims, lifting them up off a table set up in the area. Patrick rubs his eyes, still too tired for Pete’s antics. When he's done, his gaze lands on the contents taking over the table Pete has claimed as his own. Notebooks and pens mostly cover the area, nothing new. There’s his laptop, his phone, and two coffees from some obscure coffee shop. Or, Patrick assumes it’s obscure. He doesn’t recognize the name.

“Seems like I’m not the only one that’s tired today,” Patrick says, nodding towards the coffee. “You guys made a coffee stop while I was out, right? How many did you get?” His tone is a bit accusational but it’s only because he cares. Just because he missed the cue this morning doesn’t mean he can’t still diagnose if Pete’s having a good day or not. Two coffees isn’t too much of a warning but Patrick doesn’t know how strong it is or how many he’s had. He doesn’t know if Pete’s energy was stolen by the tour or the demons in his head. And, as always, not knowing scares Patrick shitless.

“Hey, no, hey,” Pete says, as if he can read Patrick’s mind. He grabs the cup that had been sitting closer to Patrick’s glasses and holds it out. “You were asleep but I thought you’d still appreciate one when you woke up. Tour’s taking a lot out us all, man. Don’t think I don’t notice how tired you’ve been recently.”

Patrick’s...touched. He takes the cup carefully, embarrassed by his sudden assumptions. He didn’t voice any of them but he still feels the need to apologize. Instead, he takes a cautious sip of the coffee Pete had handed him. Flavor immediately splashes over his tongue and he feels himself relax at the familiar warmth- even if it’s cooled a bit since Pete had bought it. It’s sweet enough to hide the bitter flavor of the coffee but not enough to overpower it. Just the way he likes it.

Patrick sets the coffee down on the table and offers Pete a smile. “Thanks, man. I needed that.”

Pete grins and it’s a step better than a laugh, though now Patrick feels like he could actually handle the sound. “I assumed. You know what else you need?”

Patrick raises an eyebrow and Pete’s grin grows into a smirk as he leans forward. “You kinda really need a shower.”

Patrick’s offended enough to prepare to shove Pete away and take back his gratitude but Pete’s eyes flick down, for just a second, and Patrick suddenly understands. His cheeks heat up, painfully so, and he realizes he needs so much more than a shower. He needs a washing machine, a new set of night clothes, and a good place to hide for a few hours. He supposes it’s a small mercy that the other guys are preoccupied but Pete’s smug smile makes that hard to remember.

“Oh, fuck you, it’s your fault, you dick,” Patrick stammers, unable to meet Pete’s eyes. He turns, already preparing himself for the shame that was bound to come with wiping himself clean in the small bus bathroom and stashing his clothes somewhere no one could find them.

Pete taps his shoulder. “Hey.”

Patrick turns around, a tired “what?” already on his lips.

Pete’s suddenly there, slipping the glasses over Patrick’s face and pressing a chaste kiss against his cheek. Patrick forgets how to breathe for the few moments that Pete’s lips linger on his skin. And they do linger, or so Patrick tells himself. How else would he be able to still feel them even after the older boy has pulled away?

“Have fun back there, Pattycakes,” Pete says, smiling like he didn’t just stop Patrick’s heart. Sure, kisses are nothing new but that’s only onstage or in bed. Never random like this. Patrick can’t respond but it doesn’t seem to matter as Pete’s already walking past him to bother someone else. “Hey, Trohman! Who you talking to?”

Patrick can’t focus on the bickering that follows. He’s too busy replaying Pete’s soft kiss in his mind.

He’s too busy convincing himself that it might mean something more. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that didn't suck? 
> 
> BTW, I have up to seven more chapters outlined and it's not even halfway done. So expect a long journey- assuming you'll stick around that long, haha. I have another fanfic for another fandom (on another site) and, though it's taken a while, I refuse to abandon it. This one will be the same, I assure you. As a writer, my promise to every work is to finish it. :) Just want to reassure everyone ahead of time. I just can't promise a regular schedule at all. So...postings will happen as a surprise. Good news for some, sucky for others. I apologize to the ones that it sucks for.
> 
> So, I think that's all the notes I need to leave. Please, leave a comment and tell me what you think! I hope you enjoyed :) See you next time!


	3. Where The Lonely Ones Roam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a spark of hope becomes a flame and where a song is never finished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd as usual. :) All mistakes are mine.  
> I also totally forget how I made the paragraphs not so spread out last time (which shows how long it's been since I've updated, which I apologize for) so here's hoping I don't totally screw up the formatting.  
> Enjoy

There’s a certain appeal to the way Patrick feels for the rest of the day. Of course, he can’t entirely avoid the insecurity or second-guessing- they've been there since before Pete and they're not leaving anytime soon. The complete hope and utter joy, though, that he feels whenever Pete so much as tosses a smile his way is a welcome change to the miserable desperation he had felt about his situation just days earlier.

“Alright, what have you geniuses decided without me?” Pete asks as he strolls into the lounge. Joe, Andy, and Patrick are crowded around a piece of paper with a draft of a setlist scrawled on it. Joe and Patrick look up but Andy keeps tapping the paper with the pencil they had been using to write.

“Just get over here, Wentz,” Andy says. “We actually might need your advice. As terrifying as that may be.”

Pete smiles and bounds over like a puppy. Patrick tries not to read into things but when Pete presses close to him on the couch when there’s a more convenient seat across from him, Patrick can’t help but smile. 

“What seems to be the problem, guys?” Pete asks, peering down at the paper. “It looks like you’ve got all the favorites. Is it the order? Because I thought Patrick handled that.”

“No, see, look. This current setlist would be about thirty-five minutes long which would be fine if we had anyone else touring with us. But we don’t. So we need to make up about twenty extra minutes,” Andy says. “Unless we want to cut off short but that would kinda suck for everyone.” 

Pete takes the paper, pondering, his eyebrows furrowing together as his smile settles into a thoughtful line. “Did you take into account-” 

“Yes, we took everything into account. Applause, instrument switch-outs, your onstage antics,” Patrick cuts him off. He yanks on his hat harshly, a substitute to running his fingers through his hair. “The only idea we've had so far is to let you talk between every song, or to even make your talking time longer. It's also the worst idea we've had so far. No one needs to hear you ramble for that long. Sorry.”

“Okay, wow, rude,” Pete says with no real heat as he passes the paper back to Andy. “I was just going to ask if you took into account the fact that we have acoustic gear but haven't used them yet? Maybe this is a sign that we should break them out for this tour.” 

“We're not comfortable with the acoustic stuff yet. You know that, Pete,” Patrick protests with a sigh. “Any other ideas?”

“No, wait,” Joe jumps in suddenly, crinkling the bag of chips in his lap as he leans forward. “I like that idea. We haven't played acoustic in forever.”

“We haven't played acoustic _ever_.  Not for a real concert, anyway. We aren't ready for that,” Patrick says firmly, forcing a glare in Joe’s direction. “And, dude, you don't get a vote anyway.”

Joe shrugs carelessly and goes back to his chips. Pete raises an eyebrow.

“You don't wanna know,” Andy states simply, cutting Pete off before he can ask the obvious question. Pete’s mouth opens as if he is about to complain that he _does_ want to know but Patrick glares at him warningly and his mouth shuts.

“Anyway,” Andy continues in a tone that causes Patrick’s stomach to sink. “An acoustic set would be the perfect way to fill the time.”

“But, Andy,” Patrick starts, sounding whiny to even his own ears. 

“Ha!” Pete jumps in, grinning victoriously. “No one argues with Andy!”

Patrick turns to face the other boy, ignoring the way his cheeks warm from the close proximity. “No, but I could totally argue with you.”

Pete’s silent a moment before breaking into another smug smile. “But, dude, you're totally outvoted.”

Patrick lets his face fall into his hands with a heavy sigh.

“You do know how to play acoustically, right?” Andy asks gently.

“Yes, obviously,” Patrick snaps, peering over the top of his hands to glare at the drummer.

“Then I guess I don't see the problem,” Andy says with a shrug. Patrick hides his face again.

“It's just...I don't like okay acoustic,” Patrick says. The other three are silent, clearly expecting an elaboration. He's glad he has his hands to prevent them from seeing how red his face goes. “It…well,” He changes his mind at the last second, unable to state the real reason. “It completely changes the way the songs are supposed to sound. I have to change some of the melodies when I'm singing and it throws everyone off.” 

“That's….Dude, that's kinda the point.” Joe’s voice has somehow taken on a comforting tone, even if there's a layer of mocking behind the words. “I mean, the fans know that. And you change the way you sing things live anyway.”

Patrick lets out a groan and finally looks up from his hands, running them down his face in an exasperated way. _Fair enough,_ he thinks before jumping to his next excuse. “Okay...but Andy doesn't get to do anything during those parts and that's not fair to him. I know I hated it when I drummed for bands.”

“What makes you think I wouldn't like getting a break while you guys are still working? I don't mind,” Andy says. “And, from the conversations we've had, I know you didn't either. What's really wrong?”

Patrick stares at the ground and shrugs, hating how easily his excuses had been torn apart. He searches his mind for another one but comes up blank. It's only the heavy silence in the room that causes him to start talking.

“I...I don't wanna mess up. It's...embarrassing,” he says in a small voice, his hands tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Acoustic songs get too confusing for me and they don’t always sound like the right song and the audience can't always sing along. Or, if they do, they do the tune wrong and then I do it wrong and...and I just don't like it. I haven't even been a singer that long! I don't know how to do it right!”

Patrick expects there to be a mocking response or even a drawn out silence to take the place of one. He expects for this to be seen as another excuse and brushed away. He suddenly remembers Pete’s presence and his mouth fills with the bitter regret of admitting his fears. And such irrational fears at that. He curls in on himself as much as possible and awaits the inevitable.

Pete’s voice is soft when he responds but Patrick imagines he hears a hint of disbelief within it. “You're great with any style we choose to go with, Patrick. Besides, it's not like you don't mess up when we perform them normally. Umm, not that you do that often. I'm just saying that you have messed up before and the fans didn't mind. An acoustic mistake wouldn't really be any different.”

“But it would be!” Patrick cries out, looking over at Pete with wide eyes. “It's so much more obvious if I screw up a lyric or note! And we have to get closer to the crowd in order for them to hear us right! They can hear _and_ see every mess up there is! It's terrifying!”

“No, Patrick.” Pete’s response is immediate in a low voice usually saved for moments when the two are alone and in the dark. He leans in close to Patrick’s ear, his breath warm as it ghosts over his neck. “It’s _intimate_ …”

The word hangs in the air between the two, like a secret being told.

Pete leans in further than he has any right to. Patrick feels his words more than he hears them. “It's intimate and the fans enjoy it. Your voice is awesome when we perform normally but, fuck, you should hear yourself when you sing acoustically. It's like...It's like your voice is naked. And that's what the fans think is hot.”

“I don’t know if I really believe that,” Patrick says in a hushed tone. He stares at the dirty floor beneath his feet. The confused gaze of Andy and Joe rest on him like a distracting weight. Pete lets his head fall down onto Patrick’s shoulder and Patrick tries his best not to react to it. He fails, tensing and sucking in a nervous breath. No one else seems to notice.

“Well, I believe it enough for the both of us so you don't have to worry about that.” And Pete sounds so sure that Patrick has to take a long moment to remind himself why he hates the idea. Maybe if Pete can stay quiet for the next five seconds, Patrick can still convince the others of the same thing.

Of course, Pete chooses that exact moment to grin against Patrick's shoulder and say, “and the fans aren't the only ones that find it so appealing.”

Fuck it. Patrick knows when he’s been beat.

“Fine!” He exclaims, the perfect mix of exasperated and defeat. He hopes no one can hear the embarrassment under it. Pete’s still leaning on him and Patrick does his best to shake him off. “Dude. Dude, I said fine. You can get off me now.”

Pete smiles and lifts his head, looking at him with something Patrick can’t define. “Awesome. I knew you’d come through for us.”

Patrick swallows and looks away. Andy and Joe are watching him with similar looks of amusement and confusion. Patrick scowls. “Whatever. You guys totally owe me one. I _hate_ acoustic.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. You guys have plenty of time to practice and we don’t have to do any more songs than you’re comfortable with,” Andy says, always the voice of reason. Patrick begrudgingly nods in agreement.

“So, the setlist is settled? I can go now?” Joe asks, a bit too excited to leave. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Joe. You can go now,” he says. Joe does a mock cheer before sliding out of his seat and heading somewhere else in the bus. Patrick raises an eyebrow but knows better than to question it. “Andy, you don’t have anything you want to add?”

“Nope,” Andy responds, already standing with a smile. “Everything’s fine. And don’t worry about the acoustics. It’ll all work out.”

“Yeah,” Pete says as Andy walks off, calling Joe’s name. “Besides, I’m sure I can make it worth your while.”

Patrick tries his best not to react to the words.

His next gasp, however, is entirely a reaction to Pete’s hand landing on his thigh with a sharp squeeze. Patrick stands, doing his best not to stutter.

“I’m just...I’m going to...Practice. Yeah. I’m gonna practice the acoustic...um, acoustic stuff…” he says, shuffling down towards the backroom where their less expensive instruments are kept. He really hopes that he’ll find an acoustic guitar back there. 

Almost as much as he hopes that he isn’t imagining the way Pete’s eyes follow him there.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s playing as quietly as he can, the acoustic guitar balanced precariously across his lap and his foot just barely tapping out the beat. He keeps his voice low when he sings the lyrics and he even has his back to the door so the sound won’t carry out and bother anyone else.

He has no idea, then, how he doesn’t hear the door open until it’s too late. By the time he realizes that someone else is in the room with him, Pete’s already kneeling on the bed behind him, pressed up against his back. Patrick fumbles the next chord. His fingers leave the strings and he prepares to question Pete’s motives. 

His hand never gets the chance to uncurl from the guitar before Pete’s fingers are covering his own, pressing them back against the instrument.

“Don’t stop,” Pete says, pleading and demanding all at once. It sends shivers down Patrick’s spine. “I’m just gonna listen to you. Don’t even pay attention to me, okay?”

“I’m trying to practice. I don’t need distractions,” Patrick says, trying to shrug Pete off. Pete stays firmly plastered against Patrick’s back and he shakes his head. His grip around Patrick’s fingers grows tighter, pressing them painfully against the strings, and Patrick winces. “Dude, come on, it’s not funny!”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Pete says, his voice muffled against the back of Patrick’s neck. The warmth of his breath would be more intimidating if Patrick didn’t recognize the tone of Pete’s words. His free hand drops from the guitar and he turns, attempting to see the bassist. Pete doesn’t let him. 

Now that he’s heard it, Patrick can feel it, too. He can feel how tense Pete’s muscles are where they’re pressed against him. He can feel the dark thoughts rolling around Pete’s head as easily as he can feel the slight tremors in his body. Patrick tries to relax, tries to make himself malleable to Pete’s needs. He hopes it will open Pete up and get him to talk, to get rid of some of the scary things inside his mind. Still, Pete says nothing. 

Patrick breaks the silence first. “What’s wrong?”

It’s a simple question but Pete still takes forever to answer it. When he does, his voice sounds strained. “It’s feels too empty out there. It’s lonely.” 

“Out where?” Patrick asks. There’s no response and Patrick strums a chord as he thinks. “In the rest of the bus?”

Pete gives a sharp nod, his hair scraping across Patrick’s neck like nails. Patrick doesn’t mind.

“Joe and Andy are out there. And they care about you just as much as I do,” Patrick says, trying his best not to sound like he’s scolding. “It’s not good to hide from everyone.”

“But I’m not hiding from everyone,” Pete says, finally pulling his head up. His breath is heavy, like he’s been running, as he moves to Patrick’s side, looking at him with wide brown eyes. “I’m not hiding from you.”

Patrick feels his throat go dry. Pete’s always too earnest, too genuine, and his eyes convey the same emotion that he throws into his words. Patrick wants to drop his gaze but he can’t find the heart to do so. He doesn’t want Pete to think Patrick doesn’t believe what he’s saying. He doesn’t want to make right now about him. So, instead of reacting, he just blinks.

“That’s still not good,” he says and he means it. As much as he loves being the one that Pete runs to, Patrick would rather that there be nothing Pete had to run from. He hopes that his eyes are just as expressive as Pete’s when he looks at him. 

“Nonsense,” Pete says, leaning to rest his head on Patrick’s shoulder. His hair brushes Patrick’s cheek when he moves closer. “You’re always good for me, Patrick.” 

Patrick doesn’t know how to respond. “I don’t...What do you want me to do?”

“Just play for me,” Pete mutters. “Just one song. I love your voice. It helps.”

Patrick knows he’ll choke on his words if he tries to speak so he gives the best answer he can. He relaxes his shoulder, slouching so Pete doesn’t have to be at such an awkward angle. He feels Pete relax in return, just a fraction, and the older boy’s hand falls away from where he had Patrick’s in a death grip against the guitar. Patrick flexes his fingers and takes a deep breath. And then he starts to play.

He isn’t even sure which songs are going to be acoustic but he knows for sure that this one won't be. The chords of "Satuday" begin to fill the room and Patrick waits for Pete to call him on it.

_“I’m good to go…”_

Pete doesn't call him on anything and Patrick is forced to play.

He plays it slower than he needs to, paying close attention to the chords and closer attention to the words. As the song continues, Patrick starts to hate himself for choosing to play this song. _Me and Pete, Pete and I._ How much more obvious could he be? How much more cliché? If Pete couldn’t tell about Patrick’s stupid crush before, this has to be a dead giveaway. Patrick’s actually surprised Pete hasn't reacted yet. 

Pete, instead, begins to shift, twisting his head and pulling off of Patrick’s shoulder. His breath passes over Patrick’s pulse for a painful second before it’s replaced with the cool air of the emptiness between them. It takes more restraint than it should for Patrick to keep from following Pete, from giving in and falling against him until they can melt together the way that Patrick knows they could. He wants to sing the words against Pete’s skin, let the _Pete and I_ be more than lyrics. He wants, he _needs_ , to bring Pete back closer to him. He hates how easily Pete can go from hanging all over him to yanking away like his touches don’t set fire to all of Patrick’s emotions. He hates how much he needs to feel Pete’s skin against his. Right now, just like whenever Pete pulls away, Patrick needs it more than he needs air.

He doesn’t follow through on any of these thoughts, though, just like he never does. He focuses more on the music he plays and the way the strings dig painfully into his fingers as he tries to keep them playing the notes they need to play. He focuses on the words and what they don’t mean. He focuses on his breath, on his foot tapping to the beat, on the fly on the wall in front of him.  He focuses on anything that isn’t the feeling of Pete’s gaze.

It’s an impossible task, though, with the way that Patrick can still see Pete in the corner of his vision. He’s almost tempted to shut his eyes to block out the distraction- because only Pete can be a distraction by just sitting still- but he knows that the second the image is gone, he’ll want it more than ever.

Damn Pete for being such a drug and damn Patrick for ever thinking that taking that first hit would be a good idea.

Patrick looks away so Pete is blocked from his vision. It’s not exactly closing his eyes and it’s not blocking Pete out entirely. He can still see the other boy’s shadow. He can still feel his presence.

This, apparently, is not good enough for Pete. Patrick jumps when he feels Pete hand come to rest on the back of his neck. He almost forgets the words he’s supposed to sing.

His playing becomes furious as he prepares for the last part of the song. Pete may be pressing close now, he may be tightening his hold on his neck, but Patrick refuses to give in. It’s not that this is a game- his feelings for Pete are so far from anything less than deadly serious- but Patrick still feels like he has something to lose. He just doesn’t know what it is. There are too many possibilities. He could lose his dignity. He could lose his band. He could lose his best friend. His heart could be broken, he could ruin any chance to love anyone else, he could lose any positivity he sees in life, he could…

_“And I read…”_

The song is never finished because suddenly Pete is yanking Patrick closer. He’s pulling him into his arms and shifting them both until they’re chest to chest. The guitar is dropped to the floor, as forgotten as Patrick’s desire to ignore Pete and finish the song. Patrick feels as if he could scream and the song isn’t finished.

Well, it’s not finished by Patrick, anyway.

Pete’s whispering the words into Patrick’s ear, hot and smug, exactly the way he would scream them. Patrick knows this isn’t a game to him but he wonders if it’s a game to Pete. Is he supposed to push him away and complain about getting distracted? Is he supposed to keep singing despite the way Pete’s arms are wrapped so tightly around him? Is he supposed to fight back? Is he supposed to take this as a sign, with Pete’s lips so close and his arms so warm? Is now the part where he confesses that he loves him?

No.

Not that.

Never that.

Patrick’s forced to remain still as Pete continues the song for him. He tries to see this the way Pete must- as a joke or a prank, as a new way to bother Patrick. He tries not to see the way they fit so perfectly together. He tries not to see the way it would look to any casual observer.

Because there are no casual observers. Pete only ever holds Patrick like this when there’s no one to see.

Pete’s moving onto the chorus and Patrick imagines now would be the part where he picks it up from him. He doesn’t expect Pete to say the _me and Pete_ part, though he wouldn’t put it past him to see how strange it would be.

Pete doesn’t say me and Pete.

_“Me and ‘Trick, in the wake of Saturday…”_

Patrick reacts the only way he can. He shuts his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. It’s his turn now to bury his face in the other boy’s neck. It’s his turn to feel as lonely as Pete had claimed the bus truly was.

Pete notices. And he stops the song.

The song is never finished. And Patrick feels as if could scream.

“Patrick...Patrick, are you okay?” Pete asks, concern coloring his words. Patrick nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak but he knows that if he doesn’t then Pete will never let this go. 

“Yeah, Pete. I’m fine,” he says and he hopes that his voice isn’t as thick as it feels.

Pete’s silent but his hands begin to rub soothing circles on Patrick’s back. “You must be tired. You sound tired.”

Patrick forces himself to hold back the disbelieving laugh he wants to give. Tired? He’s emotionally wrecked, he’s barely keeping himself together, he’s confused and it comes across as tired. This is why Pete's so oblivious to Patrick's feelings for him. This is why Patrick could never have what he wants.

Though, certainly Pete must sense something? Why else would he be treating Patrick like this? Why else would he be so willing to tempt chaos?

_Don’t you dare give me hope, Pete Wentz,_ Patrick wants to say. _I’ve never trusted hope._

“Yeah, I’m tired,” Patrick says. He just doesn’t say what he’s tired of.

“Here,” Pete says, shifting them once again until they’re lying down. Patrick’s face is still in Pete’s neck and Pete’s arms are still around him. This isn’t helping anything. “You helped me calm down by singing. It’s only fair that I help you sleep.” 

For a horrible moment, Patrick’s worried that Pete will try something sexual. He’s worried that they will resort to the only action they seem to know when they’re lying next to each other.

When Pete does nothing more than pull Patrick a bit closer and ask if he’s comfortable, Patrick is worried for something else entirely.

He’s worried because the spark of hope he had felt before has now ignited into a wildfire.

And he’s not sure he’s ready to be burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Chapter title is also the title of a cool song by Digital Daggers. I definitly listened to it a ton while writing this chapter and it just so happened to fit perfectly as the chapter title. So I used it.  
> 2\. I wanted to respond to comments last time (and thank you to everyone who left one! You're literally the best!) but I'd been so busy with college stuff that by the time I had time to respond, I felt it was too late and would just be weird. Long story short, I want you to know that I see your comments and your kudos and your bookmarks and they make me smile. :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I hope that you continue to comment, kudo, and bookmark. That is all. Good day.


	4. I'm [not] More Than This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy
> 
> Soo, a few notes.
> 
> 1\. This chapter was just posted because I feel guilty for dropping this for so long without an explanation. My other fic stole most of my attention and thank you to everyone who read that! Anyway, I'm still a bit busy with college and everything so this one will definitely not get updated as regularly as the other one was. So, I apologize for that. I don't want to say the cursed word but it's probably best if you consider this work to be on HIATUS until further notice. HOWEVER, I swear on my copy of Soul Punk that this work is not abandoned. I'll update, don't worry. I just can't promise an exact schedule.
> 
> 2\. I don't know if it's just me but the style of writing and formatting that I used in this fic just pales in comparison to my other one and that kills me. I started writing this one before I knew what my style was and the other fic helped me find it. So, if it were up to me, I would re-write the previous chapters so they're up to my standard. I'd also rename the chapters to be way less lame (and you'll notice that upcoming chapter titles are actually going to make sense and follow a format). BUT I know how annoying re-writes are and I've been reliably informed that this fic isn't as bad as I imagine. SO I'm just going to say that the style of writing and formatting may vary from here on out just because I feel more comfortable when my writing feels good. If that makes any sense*. 
> 
> 3\. Thank you for reading this. So very much.
> 
> *The first third of this chapter was written in August, I think, before I started getting serious about the other fic. So. Hopefully, it's still good. If not, hopefully, the rest of the chapter can make up for it

**I'm [not] More Than This**

 

When the bus slows to a stop outside of a diner a handful of hours later, Patrick’s already awake. To be honest, he hasn’t slept at all. He’s been too busy admiring Pete on his shoulder, who fell asleep in mere minutes to the soft rumbling of the bus and the even softer humming of Patrick’s voice. Patrick trails his fingers through Pete’s hair, smiling to himself as he hears the other two stumble about in the front area. He knows he should kick Pete awake so no one walks in on them but Patrick’s more selfish than he lets on. At least, he is when it comes to this.

Pete’s not the most attractive sleeper but Patrick still can’t look away. He finds the way that Pete’s mouth hangs open to be endearing. The smudged eyeliner beneath his eyes are intricate pieces of this masterpiece. Patrick loves the way his breath hitches every so often and the way his hair sticks out at awkward angles. He memorizes the way he sounds, the way he looks, the way he smells this close without sweat from the stage or sex. Hell, he even commits the thin line of drool from the corner of his mouth to memory. Patrick wants to remember everything. 

He brushes some of Pete’s bangs out of his face to get a better look. 

_ This is what I would see _ , he thinks,  _ if Pete loved me back. I could wake up to something like this every morning. _

Pete’s arm, wrapped around him like a vine, certainly isn’t helping to dampen the fantasy. Patrick lets out a contented breath and imagines a thousand scenarios where this is more than just Pete being Pete. His favorite daydream's the one where they’d ended up in this position because Patrick had been stupid enough to confess his feelings and Pete had been stupid enough to reciprocate them. He imagines that they’d both feel so free from that secret that they’d fall into the bed together without a moment's hesitation. There would be no empty sex and there’d be no need for pretending. Pete would cuddle close to Patrick and whisper  _ I love you _ into his ear. Patrick would smile and finally be able to kiss Pete until they were both exhausted. Pete would fall asleep on him, just like this while Patrick would still be too elated to even close his eyes.

“Pete! Patrick! You guys in there? We're at a diner. We’re gonna get food,” Joe pounds on the door, purposefully obnoxious. 

Pete rolls over, groaning, kicking down some of the sheets as he does so. The illusion shatters.

“Yeah, Joe!” Patrick calls back as he sits up. “Just a sec!”

Thankfully, he doesn’t shout back another time or come back in. Patrick yawns as he reaches over to grab Pete’s shoulder, shaking him awake.

“Pete. Pete. Peter. Time to get up. We’re getting food,” he says. Pete bats his hands away, refusing to open his eyes.

“ ‘m not hungry,” he mutters in a small angry voice. Patrick tries not to find it cute.

“Come  _ on _ ,” he whines, tugging at Pete’s hoodie now. “They’re gonna leave without us.”

“Good,” Pete says, just as pouty as before. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“ _ Pete _ ,” Patrick says, drawing out his name in an annoying manner. “Get  _ up. _ ”

Pete doesn’t respond and Patrick frowns. It’s clear that talking to him isn’t working. It’s time to resort to some desperate measures. He looks around the room thoughtfully, hoping for some inspiration. Maybe a water bottle or a can of shaving cream. Even whipped cream would do. It’s all worked before in the past. Though, Patrick remembers with a grimace, it did take forever to get the stains out of the pillows and-

Patrick’s smirk becomes a grin.  _ Of course _ . His smirk becomes a bit more devious and he reaches for the one pillow not in use by Pete. It’s not as firm as the others but that’s okay- he doesn’t plan on actually doing any true damage. With a cruel grin, he raises the pillow high above his head, moving to his knees beside Pete. He waits a few seconds, giving him one last chance to wake up. When he senses no motion from the other boy, he brings the pillow down on his head with a mighty cry.

“Get up!” Patrick shouts, raising the pillow only to bring it down again. He’s lifting the pillow once more and trying not to laugh when he notices that Pete has rolled over and is glaring at him. His eyes flick from Patrick- who sheepishly smiles- to the pillow, which is still raised high in the air as a weapon. His eyes narrow.

“Oh, fuck no,” Pete says, suddenly springing into action. Patrick receives no warning before Pete lunges at him, arms wrapping around his middle and shoving him back down on the bed with an  _ oof.  _ Vaguely, Patrick feels the cushion being yanked from his fingers and he brings his hands to cover his face just in time to block it from a series of smacks from the pillow, now held tightly in Pete’s grasp. His glasses get knocked off his face but he can't find it in him to care, laughing too hard to see anyway as he tries to fight off Pete’s attacks.

“Pete, Pete, stop!” Patrick cries out through his laughter, reaching to try and smack the pillow away. Pete ignores him.

“Come at  _ me  _ with a pillow?” Pete says. He’s attempting to sound angry but Patrick can definitely hear traces of laughter in his voice. “Bitch, I don’t think so!”

As the pillow comes down again, for probably the seventh time, Patrick reaches out to stop it. The soft cloth of the pillowcase catches between his fingers and he smiles victoriously, clenching his hands into fists and yanking to the side just in time to free the pillow from Pete’s grasp. The look of shock and horror on the older boy’s face lasts only a few seconds before the pillow swings into it. He curses loudly and Patrick laughs, tossing the pillow off the bed and away from either of them.

“Are you awake now?” Patrick asks when he’s calmed down enough to speak. In the back of his mind, he’s aware that he should be trying to convince Pete into the diner now. The rest of his mind, however, is just catching up with the way the two are situated.

Patrick’s cheeks flush red as his brain unhelpfully notifies him that he’s on his back on the bed, trapped beneath Pete. Pete’s position isn’t any better, a leg on either side of Patrick’s waist, effectively straddling him and causing him to forget how to breathe.

Pete, though, doesn’t seem to notice any of this as he leers down at the singer beneath him. 

“Unfortunately for you,” Pete answers, “yes. Yes, I am awake. And you, you little shit, are gonna pay for beating me with a pillow.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, trying his best to get out from under Pete. The squirming only makes him blush harder and he stops. “I didn’t beat you. I hit you. Like, twice. Besides, I’m pretty sure you got me back.”

“I was dreaming the best dream ever and you woke me up. I think that calls for worse consequences than getting hit by a pillow a few times,” Pete says solemnly. Patrick raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah? Like what?” It’s a challenge and Patrick knows it’s stupid but he hasn’t felt this happy or carefree in a long time.

“I’m...I’m working on it,” Pete admits, furrowing his eyebrows together as he stares down at Patrick. Patrick wants to hide from his gaze almost as much as he wants to know what it means. Pete’s eyes are dark and swirling with something Patrick can’t name. Patrick licks his lips. Pete’s eyes follow the action and Patrick sucks in a breath. 

No. No. It can’t be that. Pete’s eyes can’t mean that. 

Has he always looked at Patrick like that? Has he ever looked at _anyone_ like that? Patrick tries to recall but his mind is too hazy with the way Pete's hovering over him.

Pete’s hands fall to the bed, his eyes still indecipherable. Patrick’s breath hitches as Pete’s hands trail over his skin, sliding under his shirt and grazing his stomach. They stop at his sides. His fingers prod a bit, dancing over his skin. Without meaning to, Patrick lets out a little squeak at the ticklish action. Pete’s hands freeze but otherwise remain where they are.

Neither of them moves for a few moments. Patrick breathes slowly for several seconds, watching Pete, but eventually decides enough time has passed. Joe and Andy will be pissed if they make them wait any longer- assuming they’re even waiting. Patrick moves to sit up but Pete’s hands squeeze into his side again, drawing a squeal to slide out from between Patrick's lips. Pete’s own mouth shifts into a smirk in an instant. When Patrick looks back into his eyes, the strange gaze from before is gone. Instead, Pete just seems delighted.

“I knew it,” he says, tapping his fingers against Patrick’s stomach. Patrick’s eyes widen as he suddenly realizes that Pete’s decided upon what the penalty for waking him up will be.

“Don’t you dare-” Patrick starts, his heart rate picking up in response to the inevitable. 

“Shouldn’t have woken me up, Pattycakes. Lucky for me, you’re the ticklish type.”

“No, no I’m not,” Patrick laughs nervously as Pete’s nails scrape lightly over his stomach. “Come on, let’s go! Joe and Andy are- oH MY GOD!”

Pete starts digging his fingers into Patrick’s stomach and sides, scribbling his nails over the skin with a cruel smile. Patrick’s face scrunches up as he laughs and shoves at Pete’s hands in a useless attempt to get him to stop.

“Pete, please!” Patrick cries out, begging and shrieking in ways that only cause Pete to laugh harder. Pete pushes Patrick’s shirt up higher, showing no mercy to the newly exposed skin. Patrick’s pleas dissolve into gasping laughs and his face grows red as air escapes him. He begins to wheeze, barely able to spit out any more demands. “P-ple-”

Pete’s hands finally slow to soft strokes of Patrick’s skin. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and tries to catch his breath but he can still feel the calluses on Pete’s fingers causing him to tremble. He tenses when Pete’s fingertips trail further down, stopping near his navel and tapping. Usually, Patrick would feel nothing but insecurity at being so exposed but now, with tears streaming from his eyes and giggles still welling in his chest, he can’t bring himself to care.

“Are you done yet?” Patrick spits out between gasping breaths. Pete hums, considering, and Patrick tenses when he leans over, his breath brushing hot and wet over Patrick’s cheek. Patrick holds his own breath in his lungs, lips slammed shut as tightly as his eyes. Pete’s fingers follow him up and Patrick’s muscles tighten further, fear of another attack lingering in his mind. Finally, Pete’s hands slide to where Patrick’s shirt is tucked up to his armpits and stop. Patrick curses in his mind and waits.

Seconds pass and, finally, Pete wraps his hands around Patrick’s shirt and yanks it down. The ‘punishment’ is complete.

Patrick cautiously opens one eye, peering up at Pete with hesitant confusion. Pete just grins down—more of a smirk, really— and Patrick lets all his breath out in a  _ whoosh _ .

“You’re such an ass,” he says, at last, reaching to rub the remaining tears from his eyes. Pete laughs and Patrick means to glare, he really does, but Pete’s smile is so wide Patrick can’t help but beam back.

“Yep!” Pete agrees, nodding and leaning back on his hands. He’s still sitting on Patrick, though. Still unaware of the strangeness of their position. “But you already knew that.”

Pete’s a ball of energy, now, nearly vibrating as he grins at Patrick. Patrick can feel the unrest within him, can sense it in the way he’s nearly bouncing on Patrick’s lap.

Patrick feels his face grow red but he doesn’t stop smiling. He doesn’t look away.

“Oh, shut up, you freak.” Patrick pushes playfully at Pete’s shoulder, finally getting the older boy to move off of him. He rubs at his sides and winces. “I’m never sleeping with you again.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can approve them, before he can decide that they’re okay. His eyes widen and his lips part in an attempt to correct what he’s said, to make it sound cleaner than the way Pete definitely heard it.

And Pete definitely heard it.

“Now,  _ that  _ is a lie,” Pete says, his smile taking on sharper edges and hidden meanings. It’s the same smile he wears at nights when it’s just the two of them. It’s the same smile that promises a joyride of something Patrick could never have. It’s a smile that Patrick can’t look at any longer.

“Come on,” he says, hoping his voice isn’t too telling, isn't too desperate. “Andy and Joe are waiting for us.”

Pete’s eyebrows furrow together but that smile doesn’t leave. “Waiting for us? Where are we?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, a mundane action. He hopes that Pete focuses on that instead of how his hands are gripping onto the bed sheets so tightly they might tear or how his leg is now bouncing with energy held captive.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Some diner, I think?”

“Really?” Pete exclaims, jumping off the bed with an exciting sound. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me? I’m starving!”

And Pete’s dark smirk is gone, replaced by the trademark childlike grin that means nothing more than pranks and dumb ideas. Patrick feels a weight lift off his chest and he can breathe a little bit easier. He can stand without feeling like he’ll fall over. He can roll his eyes without feeling like he’s just playing the part of Pete Wentz’s Best Friend.

Pete is out the door before Patrick can respond and Patrick searches for his hat, tugging it over his eyes and glancing in a mirror to be sure it’s on right. His eyes linger on his reflection and he grins. His eyes are bright from the tickle torture Pete had inflicted and his shirt is hopelessly wrinkled. His cheeks are flushed and his smile won't fade. It’s so different from every other time he’s looked at himself after leaving a bed with Pete. There’s no lost look in his eyes, no trembling hands or averted gaze. He has no love bites to cover up and no shame to hide. He doesn’t look like someone that gave their body in exchange for a semblance of love. 

He looks like the happiness he always thought he would feel if Pete could love him back.

“Paaatriiick,” Pete whines from just outside. “Come on! I think we still have time to split a milkshake!”

Patrick tosses out some typical response, something about how they’ll never agree on a flavor, but his smile grows all the same. He glances at himself in the mirror one last time before leaving.

Maybe, this time, the happiness will last.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The milkshake they end up splitting— due to Patrick’s hidden crush and Pete’s not so hidden stubbornness— arrives half-melted in the crowded diner, the sides of it spilling over onto the waitress’s hand as she saunters back to their booth in the back. She’s tall and blonde, the kind of girl that’s always cast as the sweet diner waitress in every guy’s mind. Pete wastes no time ripping the drink from her hand, paying no attention to the plates stacked full of food balanced on her other arm.

“Alright,” she says, setting down plates and bending down lower than she has to. “Two grilled cheeses for you boys, an original cheeseburger for you, and a grilled chicken salad without the chicken over here. Anything I missed?”

“Um, maybe a few straws and napkins if you have them?” Patrick asks, raising an eyebrow in amusement at Pete’s attempts to salvage the sticky milkshake slipping down the side of the glass. The waitress follows his gaze and giggles, producing the items from a pocket in her apron.

“Right here,” she says, reaching over Patrick to pass them to Pete. Pete looks up, chocolate milkshake wrapped around his lips, and smiles widely as he takes them.

“Thanks, Jessica,” he says, trying and failing to discreetly glance at her nametag. “You’re a godsend.”

“Just doing my job,” Jessica says, running her fingers through her hair. “Now, enjoy your food and call me if you need anything. Okay, hun?”

Pete nods, some of the excitement from before settling into something subtle. “Yeah. I’ll definitely be sure to do that.”

Jessica giggles once more and walks away. Once she’s gone, Patrick allows himself to breathe.

“Don’t tell me you actually plan on drinking that,” Andy says, grimacing at the mess of milkshake set between Pete and Patrick. “I’d bet my drumsticks that the milk is expired and you’ll be dead within a week.”

“Well, I’d bet Patrick’s record collection that I can cheat death by only drinking half of it,” Pete says, a glimmer in his eyes as he presses closer to Patrick. Patrick, already pressed against the wall, tries not to jump at the feeling of Pete’s legs pressed so closely against his, the heat of their bodies mixing together in the limited space between them. Every movement, every fidget, every jitter from Pete’s body travels into Patrick’s and Patrick keeps telling himself that he needs to stop focusing on it. He needs to relax. He needs to breathe— even if he can feel Pete’s breath as easily as he can feel his own.

“What?” Patrick exclaims, turning his head a fraction to mock-glare at Pete. “Why would you bet  _ my  _ stuff?”

“Because,” Pete says, rolling his eyes and grinning like it’s obvious. “You’re drinking the other half.”

“You were serious about that?” Joe asks, leaning forward. “Dude, we actually need our singer.”

“And I need the experience of sharing a milkshake with someone,” Pete argues back as if it's a worthy argument at all. “And Patrick’s the only one nice enough to agree to do it.”

“I didn’t agree to-” Patrick begins, only to be cut off by Joe’s snicker.

“Oh, whatever,” the guitarist says, throwing a fry halfheartedly at Pete. “You have a list of lovers miles long and you haven’t done any of that crappy cliche stuff with any of them? Besides, I bet  _ Jessica  _ would be more than willing to split a shake with you.”

Pete flips Joe off, eyes scanning the room as if searching for someone who might have overheard. Patrick takes note of Andy’s smirk and Joe’s waggling eyebrows and takes the route that hurts the least.

“What does the waitress have to do with any of this?” He asks, reaching for a straw and refusing to look away from it. He twists the wrapper in his hands, waiting for it to tear.

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t notice,” Joe says. “ _ Hun _ ?  _ Call me?  _ She is so into Pete.”

“Honestly, who isn’t at this point? Jessica’s just one of every waitress we ever meet,” Andy says, shaking his head and reaching for his water. Patrick waits for Pete to say something. What he wants him to say, though— Well, Patrick isn’t quite sure.

“Well, she does seem like a very nice girl,” Pete says, rubbing at his chin in a contemplative manner. Patrick twists the wrapper just a bit too far and it tears silently, ripping and exposing the plastic underneath without a sound. He grinds his teeth together and ignores the pounding in his chest, the disappointment in his lungs that makes it so hard for him to breathe the same air as the boy beside him. He’s seconds away from excusing himself to the bus or the bathroom, from escaping this mess he keeps falling into, when Pete’s arm falls across his shoulders and pulls him even closer than before. “But I ordered this shake  _ specially  _ for Patrick. It wouldn’t be fair to give it away.”

If Patrick’s breath hitches at the action, if his cheeks spot red or his smile grows a bit too big, no one says anything about it.

“Special?” Patrick asks, smiling down at the table and biting back embarrassing exclamations of how much he would love to share the shake with Pete. “And what, pray tell, makes it so special that you’re sacrificing the chance of splitting it with such a nice girl?”

“I told them to make it with love,” Pete teases in a sing-song voice, causing the blush on Patrick’s cheeks to grow even warmer. “And I got them to mix the strawberry and chocolate flavors since I know you don’t like chocolate that much. But mostly the love bit.”

Patrick forces himself to look up and roll his eyes, to do anything other than smile and giggle just because Pete knows what flavor of milkshake he likes.

“You’re  _ so  _ lame,” he says, pushing at Pete with his shoulder. “You know it’s all mixed together now? Like, it’s half-melted.”

“So it’ll be semi-sweet,” Pete says with a shrug. “Still worth trying. Hey, Joe, pass me that straw over there.”

Patrick toys with the straw in his own hands while Pete bugs Andy and Joe for one of theirs, his own straw somewhere on the other side of the room after a failed attempt to blow the wrapper into Joe’s hair. Patrick grins to himself, watching Pete laugh and smile with a warm feeling in his chest, before plopping his own straw into the shake. With all the attention on Pete’s antics, he feels safe in taking a small sip. Just to be sure he won’t splutter or spit all over himself if it turns out to be as awful as it looks. With a scrunched up expression and doubtful thoughts, he takes a drink.

It’s— It’s not that bad. The strawberry’s a bit too indirect and the chocolate’s a tad too loud but they still mix pleasantly on his tongue. Yeah, it’s melted and it’s warm— not at all how a milkshake  _ should  _ be— but there’s something unique about it. Like a sunny day in winter or a snowstorm in May. It feels off but it doesn’t feel wrong. 

Patrick takes another sip, unaware of Pete’s eyes on him as he does so.

He is aware, however, of the splash of shake that ends up on his face as Pete tosses his straw in, side by side with Patrick’s. He’s all too aware of the chocolate brown eyes sparkling at him when he looks up with a grimace to see what Pete is up to now.

“You’re doing it wrong, Trickster,” Pete says, sending shivers down Patrick’s spine at the nearly spoken bedroom nickname. “We have to drink it together.”

Patrick rubs the drops of chocolate-strawberry off his cheek and smirks at Pete. “I wanted to make sure it was actually as special as you said it was going to be.”

Pete smirks back and leans in closer, his lips ghosting over the tip of his straw. “Well? Is it?”

Patrick could answer but he’s afraid it’ll come out all wrong, all romantic and mushy when this is nothing more than one of Pete’s over-affectionate friendship antics. He deliberates over a response, flicking some melted whipped cream off the top of the glass and over to Pete.

“Hmm,” he says, moving to mimic Pete’s position over his straw. “You tell me.”

Pete grins and, when he finally wraps his lips around the straw, Patrick tries his best not to stare.

It’s just Pete being Pete, over-affectionate and strangely obsessed with treating his friends like lovers. It’s just Patrick being the Patrick everyone expects, the reluctant best friend of the heartthrob that is Pete Wentz. It’s nothing more than Pete and Patrick being just that— Pete and Patrick. 

But Patrick meets Pete’s eyes over the brim of the glass, inches away as they both take a drink of this crappy diner’s milkshake. He sees the smirk still playing on Pete’s lips and feels the same twist in his own mouth as he fights down the thoughts that are beginning to emerge. He feels Pete’s hand resting on his knee, feels Pete’s leg pressed against his.

He feels he might have a chance.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“So there’s this record shop a few blocks away and we’re making great time so I think we should check it out,” Joe suggests, scooting out of the booth while Pete passes the bill back to their waitress. “You guys up for it?”

“Um, yes?” Patrick says, standing and looking at Joe with an incredulous expression. “Is that even a question?”

Andy huffs out a laugh as he shoves Joe the rest of the way out of the booth. “Of course it isn’t. We just can’t waste all afternoon there, though, alright? We do have a show to get to tomorrow.”

Patrick makes a face at Andy’s pointed look and turns to face Pete. “You’re coming, right?”

Hopeful. He sounds too hopeful and, for once, he’s not quite certain that’s a bad thing.

“Nah,” Pete says, distracted and indifferent. “This place has got some mad chick-flick vibes so I think I’ll stay on the bus and write out some cliche heartbreak lyrics.”

“Seriously?” Patrick asks, ignoring the looks that Andy and Joe are sharing as if they know something he doesn’t. “We have a free day that coincides with a nearby record store and you wanna waste it on the bus we’re gonna spend hours on? Really?”

“What can I say?” Pete asks, finally looking at Patrick but not losing that distracted glint. “The muse appears when the muse wants. I can’t control my inspiration.”

“Right,” Joe teases, folding his arms and grinning goofily. “The  _ muse _ .”

Patrick doesn’t get it. He’s not sure he wants to.

“You sure?” He asks, frowning slightly. Pete pats him on the shoulder,  already turning away.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “You guys have fun, though. Don’t miss me too much.”

“We’ll try our very hardest,” Andy says in a mock-solemn voice as they make their way to the door. Patrick shoves it open, a rush of heat greeting him and turning his attention away from the way Pete’s still looking around. From the way Pete’s restless jitters have become something else, something that’s become all too familiar.

_ Wandering hands and sweaty skin. Sticking to sheets and pressing his fingers to his lips because it’s the only way he can pretend this is real, the only way he can imagine that someone else’s mouth is over his, someone else wants him just as much as he wants them, someone else, someone like Pe- _

Patrick cuts his train of thought off with a sharp shake of his head, drawing strange looks from his bandmates. He shoves his shaking hands into his pockets and looks away from how Pete’s biting his lip, from how— for the first time today— those addictive brown eyes aren’t focused on him.

He’s tired, Patrick tells himself. Pete must still be tired from waking from such a long nap. Or maybe he’s too focused on the words running through his head. He must have a thousand verses already swimming around there, waiting to be pulled free and placed into a melody. Patrick relaxes a bit more at that thought. At the end of the day, he’s the one who’ll be reading and deciphering Pete’s words. He’s the one Pete trusts his songs with.

Besides. He’s also the one Pete wanted to split a milkshake with. The one he smiled and stared at and kissed on the cheek like it might have meant something. Like it was a sign that things were starting to go in the right direction. Patrick lets these memories calm him. He lets them ease his mind as he waves goodbye to Pete, following the other two down the sidewalk.

He ignores their conversation, though, staring at his shoes and scuffing the toe against the sidewalk every so often. He calls upon those thoughts from before, those memories that warmed him so, and tunes out the world. With images of Pete in his mind and his promising voice in his ear, it feels like hours have passed. Really, it’s only been five minutes before Joe’s shoving at his shoulder and calling his name.

“Hey,” Joe says. “Are you even listening?”

“Hm?” Patrick asks, looking up with wide eyes. “Sorry, what?”

“This guy, I swear,” Joe says to Andy jokingly before turning his smile back at Patrick. “I asked if Pete seemed a bit off to you. It felt like he couldn’t wait to get away from us back there.”

Something dark and foreboding sinks into Patrick’s gut. He ignores it best he can. 

“It’s probably just tour stress,” he suggests, not wanting to think of any other options. “You know how that gets.”

“Yeah, but tour started less than a month ago,” Andy says. “You’d think he’d still be a ball of energy.”

“Oh, he is. Trust me,” Patrick says without thinking, anything to loosen the tight coil of insecurity within his gut. Joe raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah? You know something we don’t, Stump?” He asks. There’s nothing in his voice that would suggest something lewd or lecherous and Patrick hates the part of himself that wishes there was. Is it so bad to want someone to think Pete might like him, even if it’s sexual? Is it so wrong to want to smile dirtily with someone and share innuendos about his crush when he isn’t there? Patrick forces all thoughts of his and Pete’s nightly activities into the back of his mind.

“Um,” he says, thinking instead of the horrendous tickling that had occurred before entering the diner. “Not really? I don’t know, I just thought he was tired.”

“I thought he was avoiding us,” Joe says.

Andy shakes his head and folds his arms. “I thought he just wanted us to leave so he could get in bed with Jessica.”

Patrick feels his heart stop.

“That waitress?” He breathes out, uncaring of how out of breath he suddenly is. “Dude, no. He’s just tired.”

Pete’s just tired. Patrick’s just trying to convince himself of that.

Andy laughs and Patrick hates the sound.

“Did you see the way they were looking at each other? Totally eye-fucking. Kind of disgusting if you ask me but Pete’s old enough to make his own decisions,” Andy says before wincing. “Sort of.”

“That does make sense,” Joe says, sighing defeatedly. “Though, I think I’d rather have Pete avoiding me than deal with the bus smelling like sex for a week.”

Patrick’s hands shake. Something tight and hot wraps around his throat, threatening to cut off his breath and tear apart all his words.

“Whatever, you guys are jumping to conclusions,” he spits out. “He’s probably just tired or writing lyrics or…or, fuck! I don’t know! He’s not with Jessica, though.”

Her name twists around his teeth and sticks to his tongue with a sour taste. He tries to spit it out, to pull as much of the disdain as possible from his vocal chords as he speaks. Joe shoots him a worried look and Patrick ignores it with a scowl.

“Dude, why are you getting so worked up? Pete sleeps around. We know this and we accept this. It’s nothing new,” he says. Patrick stops walking and looks away.

“Fuck you,” he snaps. Joe recoils and even Andy pauses to look over with wide eyes. Patrick doesn’t care and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to know why they accept the thought of Pete sleeping with every girl who bats her eyes. He doesn’t want to imagine Jessica— tall and pretty and blonde with a sweet smile and sweet voice— on  _ their  _ bus and in  _ Pete’s  _ bunk where Patrick will no doubt end up sometime before week’s end. He doesn’t want to deal with those thoughts when, all day, he’s been thinking something else entirely. “I know Pete better than almost anyone and I know when he’s just tired, okay? I’ll go back and check on him and he’ll totally think you guys are assholes for assuming he’d just sleep with anyone like that.”

“Why do you care so much if Pete sleeps with anyone?” Joe asks, anger starting to build in his tone. Patrick turns away, refusing to answer.

_ Because if Pete sleeps with just anyone, then I lose the one piece that makes me special. I lose the one part of Pete that I’ve laid claim to, the part that only I get to see. It means that I’m nothing more than someone who’s foolishly fallen for his free smiles and easily given smirks. I’m nothing more than another body and heart he’s slipped into. I’m nothing more than another one of his whores. I’m nothing more than a benefit. I’m nothing more than a friend. _

_ I’m nothing more. Nothing more. _

_ I’m nothing. _

“I’m going back,” Patrick mutters, shutting out his thoughts even as they grow deafeningly loud. “I’m sure we’ll stop by another record store later.”

He turns away, disregarding Joe and Andy calling after him and asking for an explanation. He listens, instead, to the sound of his feet pounding against the pavement beneath him and the feeling of the angry sun on his cheeks. He pays attention to the pieces of lint brushing against his hands in his pockets and on the subtle way his shirt, tight and itchy, shifts with each movement he takes. Too soon, Joe and Andy are no longer able to be heard. Too soon, he arrives at the diner.

Too soon, he convinces himself that it’s a good idea to march up the steps of the bus and grab onto the handle, ready to slam it open and prove everyone wrong.

Too late, he hears Pete’s voice. 

Too late, he hears Jessica’s giggle.

“Be gentle!” Jessica squeals, her voice escaping through the inch of door Patrick has opened. It’s breathy and high-pitched, so different from Patrick’s low moans and pleas whenever it’s  _ him  _ in there with Pete. 

“Sorry,” Pete says. Patrick’s heart shatters, just a bit, because he’s known that Pete does this, that Pete drags back boys and girls when Patrick isn't looking. When Patrick isn't listening. But, now, Patrick’s right outside the door and denial isn’t such an easy task when he can hear Pete using that voice on someone that isn’t him. “What do you want?”

And Patrick can imagine what’s happening now, can imagine how Pete’s hovering over her like his lips over the straw in that milkshake. He can picture them together, her skin flushed and his dark, the mix of strawberry and chocolate that Pete had said was made with love.

It’s a stupid thought and an awful comparison but Patrick can’t help but feel sick when he thinks it.

Jessica’s voice carries straight to him, like an arrow to the heart as she hums in false deliberation. Patrick doesn’t know why he’s still here, why he’s listening to the person he loves preparing to fuck someone else.

“I want you to remember me,” Jessica says at last.

Patrick could strangle her.

Remember her? As what, he wonders? The little blonde waitress Pete ran into in one of the dozens of diners they stop at? What gives her the right to ask so much from him? What makes her think that Pete would care to even think her name the second she wanders back into her stupid little life? What makes her so special?

Pete laughs, husky and rough.

“I’ll write a song all about you if you want,” he offers. It’s a lie and Patrick knows it. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Yeah?” Jessica asks. 

“Oh, yeah,” Pete says. His voice muffles for a moment and Patrick can just picture how he must be bending down now, burying his face in her neck and biting at her collarbone. “Hundreds of lyrics just for you.”

Hundreds of lyrics for someone that isn’t Patrick.

Patrick thought he was hurting before. Now, he just feels torn apart.

He can’t control the way his fingers slip, the way he stumbles back and takes the door with him. He can’t control the stunned gasp he gives any more than he can ignore the sudden hush of voices inside the bus before him.

But he can control the way he turns to run and the way he fights back his tears. He can control the way he ignores Pete’s voice, calling after him like he’s something worth being called after.

Patrick doesn’t rub at his eyes, doesn’t let those tears fall because Pete was wrong. This isn’t a “chick-flick” where his love interest will come running after him with soft words and softer actions. This isn’t the scene where all his dreams come true. This isn’t a happily ever after.

Patrick apologizes in a choked voice to everyone he runs into, everyone who has to see him falling apart as he searches for somewhere safe to hide.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, not caring if no one hears him. “I’m sorry.”

_ I’m sorry for ever believing Pete could care. I’m sorry for thinking that I was something more. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_I'm sorry._

 

_ I’m nothing _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for reading! I do love writing this fic and it would mean a lot if you could leave me some feedback if you love, like, or hate reading it. I may not update quickly but I do respond to comments as fast as I can because I love you and your comments. (that sentence feels like it didn't make any sense. forgive me, it's five am)
> 
> Reminder that you can always find me on tumblr as remember-me-for-sinturies or hum-my-name
> 
> Have a great day/night!


	5. I'm [not] Brokenhearted...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 50% Smut, 50% Cliche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Another chapter here!! 
> 
> Ok. So. The chapters just keep getting progressively longer. Like. This one was ~2000 words longer than the last one and that one was longer than all the others before it so, hopefully, I can eventually just find a length that's consistent and works well for everyone. 
> 
> Anyway, I have nothing more to say (other than one cool thing and one SUPER IMPORTANT THING) in the end notes. So be sure to check that at the end!!

**I’m [not] Brokenhearted...**

The sun is covered by rain-filled clouds and his phone is still receiving a flood of messages— some worried, some pissed— by the time Patrick drags himself back onto the bus. The forecasted storm outside has yet to begin but, the second the sound of a door slam announces his presence, everyone stares at him like he’s a child that’s been playing in puddles he was told not to step in. Exasperation. Disappointment. Shame.

Patrick can’t tell if he’s projecting or not.

“Hey, dude,” Joe says. His tone is cautious and his eyes are even more so. Before the pain and discovery of  _ Jessica,  _ Patrick briefly recalls spitting out curses at the man. Something like regret flares up in his gut but it’s doused by hurt the second he catches sight of Pete in his peripheral vision.

“Hey,” Patrick says, pointedly not looking at Pete. Pete, who’s probably told the others about Patrick’s misadventure into the wrong place and wrong time. Pete, who’s probably confused by Patrick’s response to the act and just waiting for it to blow over so he can make a stupid joke. Pete, who has no idea what he’s done.

“Where were you? Pete said you-” 

“I went for a walk,” Patrick cuts Joe off, aware that his excuse is the most obvious lie there is. Joe’s eyebrows furrow together and he parts his lips to call Patrick’s bluff, to tear the truth through Patrick's teeth with a few well-placed words and friendly smiles. Joe’s a good friend. He’s good at getting Patrick to spill out his secrets like wringing dirty water from a towel. It’s a wonder he doesn’t know about him and Pete yet.

Yet.

“It’s been a long day,” Patrick says. “I’ll be in my bunk.”

Despite trying his best to ignore him, Patrick can’t help but see the way Pete’s head lifts just a fraction at the statement, the way his back goes rigid. For an awful second, Patrick wonders if Jessica’s still around, curled up in Patrick’s sheets and replacing him. He wonders if that’s where she and Pete did it, where they re-enacted every scene that has occurred there before, Jessica taking Patrick’s role like the leading actress shoving the hopeful understudy back behind the stage.

Patrick can’t help but smile wryly as he turns around. It would make sense, he thinks, if that’s where they were when Pete promised that meaningless girl hundreds of lyrics. Pete only ever hands over his best lyrics after a good fuck in that bunk. He passes them to Patrick in the form of whispered words and fingers tracing across his skin, in hoarse voices and pleas for Patrick to remember them in the morning because Pete sure as hell won’t. Patrick has always imagined that these lyrics could be about him somehow, or at least about  _ them _ . Maybe Pete’s inspiration hits in the seconds where Patrick’s holding him close and breathing his name like it’s his favorite song. That’s always when Patrick’s inspiration hits anyway. But now? For all Patrick knows, maybe it’s just the color of the wall that gives Pete his brilliant ideas.

Patrick swings the curtains of his bunk shut with a screeching sound after climbing inside, alerting everyone to leave him alone. Knowing that it’s not enough— not with  _ Pete  _ and his over-observance and obliviousness and tendency to run into people at all the wrong times— he digs through the sheets for his laptop, balances it on his stomach once he’s lying down, and pulls up a tune he’d been working on in Garageband earlier that week. If the sound happens to be just a bit too loud, he ignores it. And if the song— the melody, the notes, the feelings it’s supposed to evoke— was originally written for Pete? Well. He ignores that, too.

He does his best not to breathe deeply as he works, dragging notes around and humming a bit too forcefully. He doesn’t need to know how Jessica’s perfume smells in such close quarters or if it matches well with Pete’s Hot Topic cologne— sprayed on just days after starting the tour and yet to be showered away. He doesn’t want to imagine anything like that happening in here without him. He can't. He won't. The thought? The image? It just might kill him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been working by the time the song is almost done, twisted from something stupidly cliche and lovely into a soundtrack for a tragedy. The notes, once light and pleading, take swift turns into fast-paced hate and blinding betrayal. They jump up and down like fists in a fight, tear through the air like bullets. He plays the music back at himself, feeling pleased with the way it’s turned out. It’s not quite like something he’s ever written, with so many instruments and such volume. He can still hear the love song beneath the pain; he can still feel its skeleton buried beneath heartbreaking bass and heartbroken melodies. Patrick can’t find it in himself to be upset, though. He’ll change it later. For now, he revels in the way that the music is too fast to sing to, too cluttered for words.

He basks in the utter impossibility of adding lyrics.

Maybe he should write more songs like this.

He pauses the song, wonders if it needs more of anything, and makes the mistake of asking the air around him.

“I personally believe it could do with less.”

Patrick certainly does  _ not  _ shriek at the sound of Pete’s voice right outside his bunk, though he does jump and cuddle his laptop close to his chest. He’s not quite certain whether he’s hiding behind it or trying to protect the song he’s created. He doesn’t have the chance to figure it out before Pete’s sliding open the curtains and peering at him with puppy dog eyes.

“Though, what do I know? You’re the musical genius. Hey, can you let me in? It’s been kinda boring sitting out here on the floor. And uncomfortable. I think my ass is going numb.”

Patrick almost forgets that he’s angry at Pete and slides an inch closer to the wall out of the habit of giving Pete anything he wants. He almost asks Pete’s opinion of the song. He almost smiles.

Almost. But not quite.

“What the hell?” Patrick snaps, sitting up as much as he can. “Have you been sitting out there the entire time?”

“Um, yes?” Pete says. Like it’s obvious. Like Patrick’s in the wrong for even asking that question. “I heard the music and sort of gravitated towards it. Why aren’t you wearing headphones? I thought you always wear headphones.”

“Only when I have the energy to search for them,” Patrick mutters, unsure of why he’s even speaking to Pete right now. Undeterred by Patrick’s flat tone, Pete leans forward with a nervous expression.

“Oh, so you haven’t been searching your bunk for stuff yet? That’s grea- I mean, um, well,” Pete trails off, causing Patrick’s eyebrows to furrow together and his lips to frown in puzzlement.

“Is there-” Patrick cuts off and looks away, cheeks flooding a crimson shade and his voice raising to the undignified high pitch of horror and realization. “Are there  _ things  _ in my bunk that shouldn’t be!? Oh my  _ god _ , Pete, did you and that fucking waitress actually leave shit in my bunk!?”

He doesn’t exactly get an answer before Pete gives a carefree shrug and crawls up into the bunk with Patrick.

“Jessica really has nothing to do with it,” Pete grunts as he crawls over Patrick, causing the younger boy to cradle the laptop to his chest once again. For a split second, he has the time to worry about the song accidently getting deleted in all the chaos that Pete is bringing to the bunk— as Pete, Patrick’s beginning to realize, often does. “I just…I just left something in here. I need to find it.”

Patrick makes quick work of saving the song and shoving the computer off the side of the bunk, wincing when he hears the landing  _ thud _ . Pete’s head is buried somewhere under a pillow and Patrick would find it adorable if he weren’t still so incredibly pissed at him.

“Do you not fucking understand when someone wants to be left alone?” Patrick spits out, doing his best to avoid Pete’s wriggling form and searching hands. He presses himself into the corner of the bunk, grimacing at having to do so in his sanctioned bus space. “Like, is that something you just can’t compute?”

Pete mutters something inaudible. Patrick’s anger grows.

“I’m serious, Pete!” Patrick shouts, wrenching the blankets back so Pete would have less space to hide. Though, it seems that Pete is doing less hiding and is more like a dog following the trail of some lost child. He’s too focused on crawling all over everything to notice.

“It’s important, Patrick!” Pete whines, lifting up the pillow his head had just been under. “I…I need to find it.”

“What even is  _ it _ ?” Patrick asks, not really caring to know the answer. He can still hear Jessica’s breathy laugh in his mind, can still see her pretty smile and flirting gaze. He doesn’t want to know what she or Pete could have possibly left in here.

“Um,” is all Pete says before diving beneath the blankets once again. Patrick kicks out, partially to get Pete’s attention and partially to take out his frustration about this entire day. Pete groans and Patrick only feels a little sorry for putting so much force behind the action. He pulls his foot away and feels something scrape across his ankle, something rough that definitely shouldn’t be in his bed. More resigned than curious, he reaches down and plucks it out from the bed.

It’s-

There’s no way this is what Pete’s looking for. Important? Really? Patrick scoffs at the idea.

“Hey, you found it!” Pete exclaims from the other side of the bunk, laying on his back and looking at Patrick with his head turned to the side. He rolls over and reaches for the paper between Patrick’s fingers with a hopeful smile.

Hopeful. 

Patrick grits his teeth and pulls his hand away.

“Did that wai- Did  _ Jessica  _ write you a little love letter?” Patrick asks, bitter poison dripping from his words as he clenches the folded piece of paper tight in his fist. He doesn’t open it; he doesn’t think to read it. Pete’s eyes fill with confusion as he tries to reach the paper once again. Patrick only pulls it further away. “Is she one of the numbers you’re going to keep in your phone for a while? Keep her around until you find another  _ Jessica  _ to hide in someone else’s bunk?”

Patrick’s not often this cruel, not often this blatant about his pain. But Pete had given him hope, had given him his dream, and taken it away in one fell swoop. Everything had been fine, albeit hollow, when Patrick had known where they stood. Friends with benefits. Nothing more. Patrick was able to live with that.

But then Pete had been so nice, nicer than he’s ever been, and gotten him coffee and kissed him on the cheek. He’d slipped innuendoes and dark promises into quotidian conversations and smirked at him like he was special. Like he was worth stupid milkshakes and tickle fights and breathless smiles. He had given him  _ hope _ and then took it back without batting an eye. He’d broken promises he didn’t even know he’d made.

And that’s the worst part.

Pete doesn’t even know.

This, Patrick realizes as he sees the hurt and confusion swimming in Pete’s gorgeous eyes….it isn’t fair. This isn’t fair to either of them.

Patrick sighs and lets his hands drop into his lap, playing with the paper but not daring to open it. 

The bunk falls silent, their breaths tangling in the space between them. Patrick tries to find a rhythm, to create a pattern. Breathe in when Pete breathes out; breathe out when Pete breathes in. Maybe it will calm the storm building in his mind. Maybe it will distract him from the sound of his self-pity.

Maybe it’s the only way to share something so important with the man he loves.

And, at the thought, Patrick’s chest gives such a sudden burst of pain that he wonders if he could really die from a broken heart. It almost makes him smile or laugh. Imagine, he thinks, dying because Pete Wentz slept with a girl Patrick won’t remember the face of come tomorrow morning.

But he’ll remember her name and how it sounded when Pete said it. He’ll remember her words and how she asked— how she fucking  _ demanded _ — to be trapped in their minds. He’ll remember the sound of her breaths as Pete promised her things he’d only ever given to Patrick.

Patrick wants to stay angry. He wants to lash out and strangle Pete until he’s as desperate for air as Patrick is for Pete to leave him alone. He wants so much from Pete, so much that he can never ask. He wants him to go away, to stay with him forever, to love him back, to just  _ understand- _

“Here,” Patrick says, his voice soft as he tosses the paper over to Pete. He stares at the sheets and tells himself that it doesn’t matter if Jessica was in here and it doesn’t matter if Jessica was with Pete. Pete’s not his boyfriend and he’s not Pete’s only whore. “Can you…Can you just leave me alone now?”

Patrick’s voice is smaller than usual and he blinks away the tears blurring his vision. Pete’s silent and Patrick can feel his eyes on him, trying to burn into his thoughts. He can feel Pete’s breathing shift, just a bit, into something more serious than before.

“Hey,” Pete says, sitting up and facing Patrick. His voice, too, is soft but in a completely different way. He sounds gentle and soothing— everything Patrick cannot be when Pete treats him in such a manner. Patrick waits, counting his own breaths, before assuring himself that the tears are hidden enough to look up. His eyes widen when he sees Pete holding out the paper he had just received, a hesitant look on his face. “Maybe- You can look at it. If you want.”

Patrick’s tone is flat and emotionless when he finally convinces the knot in his throat to disappear long enough to allow him to speak.

“What is it?” He asks, staring at the white sheet in Pete’s hand. Pete fidgets but his hand never falters.

“Lyrics,” he admits, looking down as Patrick looks up. “I- I wrote some while you were out. I wasn’t really lying about that but- I guess it doesn’t matter. Anyway, you can read them. I didn’t want you to see them until they were perfect but I also don’t want you to think I’m hiding things from you. I don’t hide things from you, Patrick.”

Patrick can’t help but look back down, anger daring to reignite in his gut at Pete’s words. Pete almost sounds like he believes them.

“Lyrics?” Patrick asks, his words a mere barrier between the world and his anger. “You sure you want to give them to  _ me _ ?”

“What?” Pete asks, his hand falling and his eyebrows furrowing together. “What does that even mean? I always give you my lyrics and you’ve never said anything about that. You’ve never complained before and I’ve given you a lot. Hundreds of lyrics, just for-”

“You ever think that handing them out so easily might make them meaningless?” Patrick cuts off, glaring at where his hands have twisted into fists in the sheets. His throat’s sore; he’s not sure if he’d shouted or if he’d sobbed. Though the sound of the bus rumbling down the street is overbearing in the silence that follows, Patrick can still hear the second when Pete’s breath catches in his throat.

The paper falls to the floor as Pete pulls away. Patrick’s breaths become quick and heavy, daring him to tell Pete to come back. He swallows the plea down, creating even tighter fists and wishing that the fabric could tear.

“You overheard,” Pete says, though it’s phrased as if it should be a question. Patrick refuses to respond. Seconds pass. Patrick can’t tell if he’s matching Pete’s breaths anymore or if he’s even breathing at all. “That’s why you ran off. But why would that-”

Pete’s sentence stops and Patrick’s heart pauses along with it.

“Oh,” Pete says. “ _ Oh _ .”

“Don’t say that,” Patrick spits out, though his voice is a bit shaky. “You don’t know anything. So...So don’t act like you do. Please.”

“Patrick,” Pete says, leaning forward. Patrick’s certain that he’s ignoring his plea. “Patrick, we went over this.”

Patrick can’t find his voice as Pete takes his hands, smoothing out the fists against Patrick’s will. His eyes are downcast while Patrick’s dart around, desperate for escape.

“We went over this.”

“I know!” Patrick cries out, yanking his hands away as if he’d been burnt. “And…And what we went over has nothing to do with  _ this,  _ okay? Don’t- Don’t flatter yourself.”

His words come too quick to be believable and his voice is too desperate to wash away Pete’s thoughts. Pete looks up at him from beneath his bangs. If Patrick weren’t so upset, he’d laugh and call it dramatic.

“Are you sure?” Pete asks, his voice low. “Because I don’t want to do anything to hurt you.”

Patrick lets out a strangled laugh, so abrupt that Pete flinches.

“Like I said,” Patrick spits out. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He can feel Pete’s eyes on him as he forces his breaths to become calm. He forces his heart to slow down, worried that Pete might hear it in the silence between them. He does his best not to shake and he begs himself not to give in. 

Pete lets a breath and it shifts the entire universe around them.

“Okay, then,” he says, just as gentle as before. “Okay.”

Pete’s closer now and Patrick has nowhere to go as he presses up against him, painful electricity sparking in the places their bodies touch. He wants to push Pete away; he wants to scream that they ‘went over this’ but they never defined what ‘this’ is. They never took the time to care about what it’s not.

“Jessica left after you ran off. I think she got scared of being caught. I don’t know,” Pete whispers, his breath brushing against Patrick’s skin as he rests his forehead against the other boy’s shoulder. Patrick’s tense beneath him, refusing to respond. “It doesn’t really matter. She wasn’t important.”

_ Of course, she wasn’t _ , Patrick thinks.  _ Is anyone important to you? _

Pete’s hands push against Patrick’s stomach, pressing and urging him to lay down. Patrick knows what Pete wants and he knows he told himself not to give in. He told himself that he was pissed at Pete— and, really, he still is— and that he should be done with this because it only brings pain. Patrick doesn’t need that sort of hurt in his life, the kind that scars in places no one will ever see. He’s never imagined that being with Pete, in any way or form, could be like this. He’s always wanted to have something tender, something he could cherish. He used to imagine that being with Pete could never hurt, not like this, and he could never have a reason to cry. He’d wanted something soft. Something tame. Something gentle.

Pete’s hands are finding their way beneath his shirt and that waitress’s voice appears in his head again.

_ Be gentle _

And Patrick refuses to be anything like her.

“Don’t,” he says, craning his neck away from where Pete’s lips have begun ghosting over. “Not like this.”

“Patrick,” Pete’s voice whines. “We  _ talked  _ about-”

“Yes, we talked,” Patrick says, pushing Pete back so he could finally look him in the eye. “But not about this.”

Patrick’s voice drops to a low and dangerous level, the kind of voice that steals Pete’s attention and keeps the dark haired boy from speaking. Pete’s eyes search over Patrick’s features and Patrick can’t help but to look away, to stare at where his hands are pressed flat against Pete’s chest. He can feel Pete’s pulse, his breaths, the heat of his skin beneath that shirt, and it causes his own breathing to escape in a soundless sigh. 

Both boys watch, silent, as Patrick digs his nails into Pete’s chest and scrape down slowly, the shirt dulling any pain that may have appeared. But that’s okay. The girl never said that she didn’t want to be gentle. She said that she wanted Pete to be gentle with her. Patrick wonders how many girls have said that, how many have gotten a glimpse of Pete’s erratic emotions and reckless actions and begged for him to be calm. He wonders how many girls or boys Pete’s dragged to a bed or bunk and he wonders how many have let Pete be the being of energy he is. Patrick wonders if he’ll be the first because, God, does he know that he won’t be the last. 

He knows he won’t be the last the way that he knows he loves Pete— with painful clarity and the awful habit of passing the point of no return.

Pete swallows loudly and it causes Patrick’s breathing to stutter. 

“What do you want me to do?” Pete asks, sounding more like an unsure statement than a real question. Patrick shakes his head and almost shrugs before shutting his eyes to take a much-needed breath. 

“I want-” Patrick bunches up Pete’s shirt in his hands and ignoring the fact that he may be stretching it beyond repair. “-I want to do something memorable. I want...I want to try doing this different. I want it to be  _ rougher _ .”

Pete grows tense beneath Patrick’s touch, a rigid sign that Patrick somehow interprets as positive. He moves back, finding Pete’s eyes once more, and pulls the bassist to hover over him as he lays down in the bunk. Slowly, so slowly that Patrick feels he may cry, Pete moves. He straddles Patrick’s waist and pulls back— an action that causes Patrick’s mind to go blank. He can’t imagine that Pete would deny him this, that he wouldn’t want it. He can’t think of a world where Pete wouldn’t grin or smirk and say “hell yeah, I’ve been waiting for you to say that”. 

Instead, Pete’s hands smooth themselves across Patrick’s chest, a stark difference to how Patrick had been clinging to Pete’s shirt so tightly mere seconds ago. Patrick’s cynical mind adds symbolism to that-- pretends that it means that he can’t let go of Pete when all Pete wants to do is touch him for no longer than a moment.

Pete’s hands glide down to rest on Patrick’s waist, his eyes glued to his own fingers. There’s a certain stiffness to the way he moves, a certain hesitation in his eyes. It’s the same way he looked the first time they did this, the first time they had sex, the first time they fuc-

No, Patrick realizes as he reaches and cups Pete’s cheek in his palm. They haven’t fucked. They’ve slept together; they’ve had sex. But, no. They’ve never really fucked.

“Patrick.” His name slips loose from Pete’s lips, a groan that has Patrick reaching with his other hand to pull the curtains around them shut. It’s something he should have done a long time ago— something he should have done the second Pete crawled in here because this is the only way scenes like that end.

Patrick grinds up into Pete, gasping at the pleasure it shoots through his body. He does it again, a hysterical second of betrayal shooting through his mind as he bites his lip. He’s pissed at Pete and at himself; he’s going to do something he’ll no doubt regret later. But, still, his body reacts the same way it always will.

“I want you to  _ fuck  _ me,” Patrick breathes, moving his hand from Pete’s cheek to behind his head, pulling him close so he has no reason to speak any louder. “None of the gentle crap we’ve been doing. I want to  _ feel  _ it, Pete. I want to have a fucking  _ limp  _ tomorrow.”

“Patrick.” And Pete’s voice is sterner now as he pulls up to look at the boy with a discerning gaze. It’d be a bit more intimidating if not for the barely there blush and blown pupils that Patrick has come to associate with sex. “What has gotten into you?”

“Come  _ on _ ,” Patrick groans, rocking his hips in little circles. He smirks as he feels Pete harden against him; he lets out a throaty laugh when he hears how Pete gasps. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? I know I told you to be soft before but that was a long time ago, Pete. Now? I want it fucking  _ hard _ .”

Pete’s hands finally fall to Patrick’s hips, stilling his movements. 

“No,” he demands, shaking his head. Patrick can’t tell if Pete’s trying to convince him or himself. “No way. We’re- I could hurt you.”

The way he says it causes Patrick to shiver. It’s the way he sounds when he tells Patrick to say when he’s ready. It’s the voice he uses when they’re falling asleep afterwards and he wants to make sure Patrick’s not too sore. It’s the way he smiles and laughs when they’re in the light and the way he pretends that their actions in the dark won’t make an impact on their friendship.

It’s the way he says his name, the way he says  _ Patrick,  _ and Patrick can’t be  _ Patrick  _ right now, he needs to be Trick. He needs to be the one that Pete won’t look in the eyes, the one that Pete sees only as an easy lay when his own hand gets too boring. 

But, Patrick thinks, Pete’s never hurt Trick. He’s never bruised him or pinned him down with his hands above his head. Trick has never needed to beg or whine or plead. So. Patrick has to do that for him. And then Pete can fuck Trick as much as he wants.

“Pete,” Patrick says patiently, pulling one of Pete’s hands free from his hip and tugging it up to his lips. He presses a light kiss against the knuckles, never once looking away from Pete’s eyes as he does so. “That’s kind of the fucking point.”

“Patrick,” Pete says, sounding pained. “Please. Stop.”

Patrick scoffs, turning his head to the side and dropping Pete’s hand. 

“You know what?” He says, pushing himself to a sitting position and pushing Pete off of him. “Fine. We always have to do things your way. Play acoustic, split a milkshake, have sex like we’re a couple and refuse to call it what it really is. Friends-with-benefits- Ha! Well, Pete, from where I’m sitting, you’re the only one getting any of those benefits. Maybe I’m sick of this and want to try something new. Maybe, if you can’t give me what I need, I’ll find someone else who can.”

The words have barely left Patrick’s mind, let alone his lips, before Pete’s shoving him back down with more force than he ever has, causing Patrick’s eyes to widen as he stares up at Pete in shock.

“You are not going to find someone else,” Pete growls, eyes dark and lips twisted into a threatening scowl. “You’re  _ mine,  _ Trick.” 

Patrick’s heart beats erratically against his chest and Pete pins his wrists down to the bed, exactly how Patrick had been imagining before. Pete leans down lower, his breath hot over Patrick’s face. Patrick shuts his eyes and gives one last push. 

“Prove it.”

Pete’s voice is nothing less than animalistic at Patrick’s words and he grinds down against Patrick, causing the younger boy to moan.

“You want rough?” Pete mocks. “I’ll give you rough.”

Patrick’s eyes slam open as he hears the curtains to his bunk being pulled back, terrified that they’ve been caught. But his sight is filled with Pete’s lecherous grin and he feels nothing more than Pete yanking him into a standing position. He stumbles, confused, as Pete leads him into the back room they had been in before, the sheets still a mess from the innocent tickling and tackling that had occurred before. Pete’s hands are all over Patrick’s body, leaving only to lock the door behind them. The sounds of Joe and Andy bickering over video games in the front carries to faintly and Patrick has a second of wondering whether this is more suspicious than the bunk before Pete is tossing him against the bed and all thoughts leave his mind. He lands on his stomach with an  _ oof  _ and tries to roll over only to feel Pete’s hands pressing against the back of his thighs, keeping him in place.

“Stay just like that, Trick,” Pete says. Patrick looks over his shoulder to see Pete tossing a leg over Patrick’s legs, straddling him with his hands still on his thighs. Pete looks up and meets his gaze, smirking when he does so. “Look ahead, baby. This is what you wanted, right? I want it to be a surprise.”

Patrick’s stomach is already twisting in dozens of knots, snakes and spiders taking place of the butterflies that should be there instead. Is this what he wants, he wonders? Does he really want to be treated like this, tossed around and touched like nothing more than a slut? With a word, he knows that he can take it all back. He can get the Pete back that he knows, the one who’ll kiss him anywhere but his lips and whisper how beautiful he looks. The one who will look him in the eye when they’re pressed so close together. The one who doesn’t sound like a predator.

His Pete? His Pete always sounds like someone who loves him. And that’s why Patrick presses his face into the pillow before him. It’s why he does what this Pete says. Because, like this, there are no lies. And the only pain he’ll have to deal with is physical.

Pete slides Patrick’s jeans down, tugging them loose and chuckling when they hit the floor. Patrick shivers at the cold air against his skin. He wants to look back and tell Pete to do something, to stop staring and just touch him. As if he’d read his mind, Pete’s hands are suddenly on Patrick’s ass, kneading and squeezing in ways that make Patrick squirm.

“Mm, I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” he says, laughing at the sight of Patrick writhing beneath him. “You’ve got the perfect ass for it, you know.”

Patrick grows harder as Pete’s hand dips in between his cheeks, pressing against his hole through his boxers. He whines, not caring of the volume and not thinking of what Pete’s words mean. His head grows fuzzy and his breathing becomes labored as he pushes back into Pete’s hands, wanting more. Needing more. 

“Please,” Patrick breathes. “You said you’d be rough...Please, Pete, please…”

The pain on his ass is instant, Pete’s hand landing on it with a loud and sudden smack. Patrick jolts, the action causing his cock to rub against the mattress beneath him. He groans, not sure which sensation he’s reacting to. 

“Trust me,” Pete says, leaning down to cover Patrick’s body with his own, his hands holding Patrick’s wrists on the sides of his head, keeping him from moving. “This will be rough.”

Patrick feels his skin flush, a heat spreading over him from Pete’s proximity. His world spins and he tries to catch up, tries to pay attention to the way Pete’s breathing against his neck and leaving hickeys he’ll have to hide tomorrow. Patrick’s brain buzzes with pleasure and he fidgets, his chest constricting as he realizes just how little he can move. Pete’s grip on his wrists grows tighter, bruising him and causing Patrick to cry out.

_ This is what I wanted _ , Patrick tells himself.  _ This is what I asked for. _

“Pete,” Patrick whines, his voice barely audible over the rushing sound of blood in his ears. Pete, though, hears and pulls back to land another blow against Patrick’s ass.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands harshly, even as he rubs at Patrick’s cheek to soothe some of the stings. “Tell me  _ exactly  _ what you want.”

“You,” Patrick says, burying his face in the pillow. Shame and humiliation flood through his veins as he repeats himself, louder. “You.”

It’s a game to Pete, as it always is, and he laughs as he smacks Patrick's ass once more. Patrick groans and grinds against the bed, anything to distract himself from the pain he’s receiving, the pain he begged for.

Pete doesn’t relent this time, adding five more slaps against Patrick’s skin without warning. Patrick cries out each time, muffling the sound in the sheets and squeezing his eyes shut.

“You like that?” Pete asks once he’s done, rubbing against Patrick’s skin, just like before. Patrick wonders what would happen if he were honest-- if he told him that it’s not working the way he thought it would. 

Maybe he just needs to give it a little bit longer. Maybe this isn’t ‘rough’ yet. Maybe this still has a chance.

“Harder,” Patrick says, peering over his shoulder to look at Pete. “Do it harder.”

Pete’s eyes widen and Patrick imagines he sees a second of hesitation. It’s gone, though, the moment he raises his hand once more and brings it down with alarming force.

Patrick cries out and his mind goes blank.

That. That is what he was looking for. 

“Yeah, like that,” Patrick says breathlessly, writhing in anticipation of another blow. But Pete gets off the bed and Patrick turns, confused by the sudden lack of contact. “Pete? I thought…?”

“I can’t keep hitting you forever,” Pete says, though there’s something bitter in his tone. “Get on your knees. Now.”

Patrick swallows and does as he’s told. But the thoughts and heartbreak are coming back. Whatever Pete’s going to do, it needs to be just like that last hit. It needs to hurt enough for Patrick to forget. If only for a second.

“Fuck, Trick,” Pete says, coming back over to run his hands down Patrick’s sides. He pushes Patrick’s shirt up, bending to kiss his stomach as he always does. Any other time, it would fill Patrick with clumsy adoration and make him blush as Pete soothed away his insecurities. Now, it just ruins the illusion. It reminds Patrick of why he loves Pete and gives him a spark of hope— however small— that Pete might love him. He pushes Pete away and takes off his shirt, tossing it to the side in hopes of encouraging Pete to continue. Pete grins at the action and Patrick has to drop his gaze at the sight. 

“Come  _ on _ ,” Patrick says, once more, not caring of how impatient he sounds. Pete doesn’t seem to care, either, as he pushes Patrick to press his face against the pillow again. He keeps him propped on his knees, though, his ass in the air and in nothing but his boxers. Shame, humiliation…Those feelings keep coming back.

“Feel how hard I am for you, Trick?” Pete asks, coming up behind him and pressing his clothed erection against Patrick’s ass. He grinds against him and Patrick moans, gripping onto the sheets so tightly that his knuckles grow white. He pushes back, desperate for more, and Pete’s hands grip his hips just like in the bunk, keeping him still. 

“Yeah,” Patrick hisses, completely at Pete’s mercy as one of Pete’s hands trails up to press between his shoulder blades, making the arch of his back even more defined. “Please, I need more, I need to feel you, I want to feel you. Fuck me, I want it to  _ hurt-” _

“I know,” Pete says, his voice soft but his hands harsh as his fingers tangle in Patrick’s hair and yank him up, Patrick’s back pressed flat against Pete’s clothed chest. “I know, baby.”

Pete’s hand drops down, toying with one of Patrick’s nipples and making him arch against his chest. His other hand reaches to palm Patrick through his boxers, teasing him through the fabric. Patrick tries to press against him, groaning when he can hear Pete’s laugh— moaning when he can feel his smirk against his neck.

“You’re so desperate for me,” Pete says, adding more pressure against Patrick’s cock. “You always are.”

He pushes Patrick back down into the position he was in before, ass up with his face pressed against the bed. He nudges Patrick’s legs apart, spreading them and pressing against his hole as Patrick moves. Slowly— too slowly— he pulls his boxers down as low as they can do, stopping at Patrick’s knees. Patrick groans, unsure of what to do as Pete’s words echo through his mind.

_ So desperate _

_ You always are _

Is he that obvious? That blatant? He whines again at the thought, doing nothing to prove these statements wrong.

Patrick hears the sound of Pete uncapping the lube they store oh-so-discreetly beneath the mattress. He shifts in anticipation and hates himself a bit more when he realizes that he’s being impatient. That he’s being desperate.

When Pete sinks his fingers inside of Patrick— bending down to bite at his neck as he does so— it’s with none of the intensity that was promised. Sure, Patrick’s ass is smarting from those hits and, sure, Pete’s starting with two fingers instead of one but none of this makes up for the way Patrick felt when he heard Jessica in here. None of this is equivalent to ‘hundreds of lyrics just for her’. 

Still, Patrick accepts it, squirming and whimpering in  _ desperation  _ for every push and stroke. Pete’s fingers curl inside of him, hitting against his prostate on the first try. He rubs against it mercilessly, reducing Patrick to a sweating and sobbing mess, before pulling away. A second passes— a horrible second where Patrick thinks that’s it. But then Pete’s fingers shove back in without warning, thrusting back and forth as Patrick bites down on the pillow to hide his scream. Pete slides another finger in when Patrick’s barely ready, beating against his prostate until Patrick's words become nothing more than desperate sounds.

“Is this what you want?” Pete asks breathlessly, pressing down on the back of Patrick’s neck to keep him down. He curls his fingers again, picking up the pace. His other hand releases Patrick’s neck and he leans over again, this time so his free hand can reach and stroke Patrick’s throbbing erection. Patrick bites his lip to keep from screaming and a cruel part of his brain imagines that being quiet would be a lot easier if Pete would kiss him.

“Pete, I’m so close. I’m gonna come,” Patrick chokes out, caught between wanting to push forward and back at the same time. Pete ignores him, pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek.

“We’re just getting started, Trickster,” Pete says gruffly, tightening his grip on Patrick’s cock and sending him into another level of bliss. Patrick groans, trying to reach down and swat Pete’s hand away. He hates coming first, hates the shame of knowing that Pete— clear-headed and focused on Patrick— can see every tremor of his body and hear every embarrassing sound he makes. He’s much more likely to catch the tears that way; he’s certain to hear the way that Patrick moans his name. 

Pete doesn’t notice Patrick’s wishes, batting away Patrick’s hand when it comes too close. Patrick turns his head and sees Pete watching him, a smirk on his face. He means to beg for him to stop, to say that this is cruel but it isn’t rough. It isn’t anything that Patrick will feel tomorrow; it isn’t anything either of them are going to care to remember.

In a second, though, he can’t speak. Pete twists his wrist around Patrick’s dick and slams his fingers against his prostate at the same time. Patrick gasps and lets out a high pitched moan, a series of words that might be Pete’s name following as he shudders and comes all over Pete’s hand, his body trembling and his mind exploding. Patrick slumps forward, boneless from the orgasm as Pete pumps him through it. He feels blissed out and tired but, underneath all that, he feels disappointed. Rough. He was promised pain-- and bliss, he thinks, is not pain. He moves to roll onto his side, to pretend to sleep until Pete leaves him to ruminate over what’s occurred. Pete removes his hands from Patrick’s body.

_ Well,  _ Patrick thinks.  _ That was disappointing. _

He makes it onto his side. He begins to close his eyes.

“Oh. I don’t think so.”

Pete shoves Patrick onto his back, his hands pinning his hips to the bed. Patrick opens his eyes, unsure of what to expect, and the look he receives in return tells him that this is far from over. Patrick bites his lip and meets Pete’s eyes as Pete leans down closer, brushing his lips across Patrick’s cheek as he rolls his hips against him. Pete groans, still hard, but Patrick whimpers in oversensitivity. Pete sits up and removes his shirt, grinning at Patrick the whole time. When he leans back down, his lips find one of Patrick’s nipples and his hand toys with the other one. Patrick jerks against him, too soon after his orgasm to get hard again, but Pete pays him no attention, biting and pinching at his skin. He makes his way down, biting and sucking and leaving red marks all over Patrick’s torso. 

“What was it you said?” Pete asks, pulling Patrick’s boxers off from where they still rest tangled around his knees. Patrick’s eyes widen as Pete begins to stroke his flaccid cock, a dark glint in his eyes. “Why don’t you ask for it again? Tell me what you want. If you still think you want it, that is.”

A game, Patrick thinks as he slams his head back down against the bed. It’s still just a stupid game.

He knows what Pete’s playing at, what Pete’s counting on. Pete’s betting that Patrick’s so spent that he’ll take back his demands from before, that he’ll give in. Pete thinks that Patrick didn’t mean it when he said he wanted to be hurt, to be rough. He thinks that Patrick was exaggerating.

Wasn’t it Pete who called Patrick desperate, though? That’s the truest thing he’s ever said.

Patrick looks back up and meets Pete’s eyes with a stern gaze of his own. The steel in Pete’s eyes falters but it’s too late to turn back now.

“You know full well what I said,” Patrick snaps. “So are you going to fuck me or not?”

Pete shuts his eyes and lets out a breath— a reaction that could mean anything. Patrick stores it away and makes a note to contemplate it later, too focused now on the way Pete’s running his hands along Patrick’s inner thighs. His eyes open and he meets Patrick’s gaze, staring at him with an unreadable expression as he spreads the other boy’s legs even wider than before. “You’re sure that you want this?”

He probes at Patrick’s hole again with a finger and strokes the knuckles of his other hand along Patrick’s length. Patrick jerks and bites his lip to keep from whimpering, the sensitivity causing him to bite hard enough to taste blood. Pete’s observant, narrowing his eyes at the reaction, but Patrick nods anyway.

“Fine,” Pete says, at last, defeatedly. Patrick takes the time to breathe and prepares himself as Pete searches beneath the mattress for a condom. He takes his time rolling it on and lubing himself up, his eyes flicking to Patrick between each of his moans. He still doesn’t believe that Patrick can do this. He doesn’t believe that Patrick could want this.

But Patrick saw the smirks that Pete gave him, he heard the mocking tone in his voice when Jessica said to be gentle. Patrick’s just giving Pete what he wants, keeping him interested, and consequences be damned. He reaches down and grips beneath his knees, spreading himself even further. Pete’s eyes widen and he lets out a curse at the sight, his hand speeding up on his cock.

“No,” he says, placing a hand on one of Patrick’s legs. “You want it like this, we’re doing it on your stomach. Same position as before.”

Patrick’s shaking and sore when he turns over, cursing under his breath so Pete can’t hear. He hopes that Pete can’t see the way his thighs tremble when he bends back down. He hopes that he doesn’t look as pathetic as he feels, hiding his face away so Pete doesn’t have to see him in the brighter lights of this back room.

The head of Pete’s cock presses against Patrick’s hole, teasing and circling and giving him time to back out. He places his hands on Patrick’s ass and Patrick jumps, reminded of the bruises that are sure to form from the smacks earlier. He shakes a bit more, breathes a bit heavier. He doesn’t have time for games like this.

“Fuck me, Pete,” he says, shutting his eyes in embarrassment. “Please.”

There’s a second where nothing happens, nothing more than Pete lining himself up and blowing out a breath that Patrick can feel spread across his back. It’s a bit like playing chicken. One of them is bound to back out, it feels like, and Patrick’s not sure which scenario would be worse— him or Pete.

He forgets everything the second Pete thrusts inside. 

Patrick screams, but it’s only audible for a second before Pete’s reaching and shoving his face into the pillow to muffle him. 

“This is what you wanted,” Pete growls, placing both hands on Patrick’s hips with a grip that will leave bruises tomorrow. Patrick struggles to breathe, let alone respond, as Pete fucks him into the mattress and slaps his ass again and again. 

“P-Pete,” Patrick sobs, oversensitivity causing him to forget every other word he knows. Pete’s hand winds in Patrick’s hair, tugging him up just a few inches.

“Tell me that it’s what you wanted,” Pete demands, his voice harsh. Patrick chokes back another sob and shuts his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“It’s- It’s what I wanted,” he lies. Pete’s hand yanks on Patrick’s hair, forcing him back to his chest and bouncing him in his lap with an arm around his waist. He doesn’t seem likely to let up anytime soon, Patrick’s legs spread across Pete’s thighs in a painful stretch. Pete reaches and smacks against Pete’s inner thighs, telling him to help and bounce because this is what he asked for— this is what he deserves. Patrick does as he’s told, legs aching as he lifts himself up and down to meet Pete’s thrusts. It doesn’t take long for him to get hard again— too fast and too soon. Pete notices, holding his hand in front of Patrick’s face. “Lick it. Get it wet.”

Patrick swallows urgently but does as he’s told, knowing full well what’s going to happen once he’s done. He reaches and wraps his hands around Pete’s wrist, pulling his hand closer and running his tongue across Pete’s palm. It should be disgusting, the taste of salty sweat and leftover lube, but Patrick savors it because he’s desperate and this is Pete. Pete pulls his hand away once he’s satisfied, reaching down to wrap around Patrick’s cock. Patrick keeps himself from crying out but it doesn’t make it any less excruciating, it doesn’t make it any less pleasurable. It only takes an embarrassing amount of five strokes before he’s coming again, thick globs of white come over Pete’s hand. He lets out a whimper when Pete pushes him back down on his face, readjusting his grip on Patrick’s hips and slamming into him again and again. Patrick’s lightheaded and stammering, not sure if he’s begging for Pete to stop or keep going as the pain and sensitivity grounds him in places away from his toxic thoughts. Pete slams in once more with a low groan, bending down and sinking his teeth into Patrick’s shoulder as he finishes inside him. The action presses him against Patrick’s prostate with too much force and Patrick cries out with a pathetic plea.

“You’re fine,” Pete says, his voice hoarse as he slowly pulls out with a wince. “You’re fine.”

Patrick merely groans and creates a loose fist in the sheets beneath him, too weak and tired to do anything other than finally fall onto his side. Vaguely, past the haze of pleasure and pain in his mind, he’s aware of Pete taking care of the condom and moving the soiled sheets. Patrick doesn’t care that Pete’s gone, that he’s not curled up next to him like he usually is. He feels tired, desperate, and used— he feels exactly the way he expected he would.

“Hey,” Pete says, falling next to Patrick on the bed. Patrick groans again and shuts his eyes, pain spiking through his body as the bed bounces. “Was…Was that okay?”

Patrick lets out a noncommittal sound, incapable of opening his eyes once more. Still, he can practically feel Pete’s frown on him.

“I should have asked to make sure that you were okay with some of that. Like the spanking and hair-pulling. But you said you wanted rough and I didn’t know what else to do…”

Pete trails off, the way he always does when he realizes no one is listening. Or, more commonly, when he thinks that no one is.

“Hey, are you asleep?” Pete asks, poking at Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick hums out another response but Pete doesn’t seem to hear it, sighing and resting a hand on Patrick’s waist as he curls up next to him. “Typical guy move, Patrick, but fair enough. I guess it would be tiring to come twice. I should have asked you about that, too. I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”

Patrick wishes Pete would stop talking because it’s ruining everything they just did. His tone is soft and calm; his touch is soothing and gentle. Patrick doesn’t need to be coddled like that waitress. And he doesn’t want to be treated like someone special when he knows he’s not.

He thinks back to what Pete had said in the midst of their activities, too on the mark to be anything other than a subconscious observation. He remembers how Pete had scoffed and called him desperate for him, the way he had smirked and laughed at the thought.

That. That was the moment Patrick was able to break free from his illusions of Pete ever loving him. That was the moment Patrick understood how Pete sees him, the moment he learned what he is— a desperate whore.

And this is the second Patrick decides that he needs to feel that way again. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! I still feel really new to this whole writing smut thing so I am so sorry if that sucked. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for reading, please leave a comment (any comment), and have a wonderful day/night. :)


	6. I'm [not] Expecting to Take a Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning!!! (possibly?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So. This probably isn't what you're expecting but it's something that will impact most-- if not all-- of the rest of the plot. Please pay attention to tag changes!! As much as I may dislike spoiling my work, I'd be absolutely devastated if someone were to get triggered or hurt while reading it :) Stay safe, please!

**** For all that Patrick can’t stop thinking about the half-seconds of relief he felt the last time Pete fucked him, Pete can’t seem to remember it. Every day, Patrick waits for Pete to bring it up. He waits for him to mention that they should do it again or that they should do it rougher. Patrick prepares a multitude of replies to each sentence he imagines Pete might speak. He practices the intonation and pronunciation of each word, wondering if a specific remark might make Pete smile or stay a second longer. But, when a week passes and Pete refuses to follow the script written out in Patrick’s head, the singer is at a loss. No longer does he wonder about what Pete might say; he worries over what his silence might mean.

“Great show, tonight, guys!” A techie says, clapping Patrick on the shoulder as he leaves the stage. Patrick smiles and nods gratefully, throat a bit sore from the performance and his head a bit too busy with thoughts about Pete. He’d done most of the concert on autopilot, a habit he’s trying hard not to form. Still, it  _ had  _ helped him from stressing too much during the acoustic piece— even if Pete’s eyes on him had left him stuttering over a few words.

“Hey, Rickster!” Pete’s laughter cuts through the sound of the stage set being taken apart and carries over the noise of those around them. “There's a group of fans clustering around the exit. They're not making a ruckus or anything but security wants to know if we want them cleared out.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause we’re totally the type of rockstars who can get away with that,” Patrick shoots back, putting on a sarcastic smile to match his tone. He laughs when Pete does and shakes his head. “Dude, if I ever say yes to that question, please be sure to slap some sense into me.”

“Will do,” Pete says, grinning and bumping into Patrick with his shoulder playfully. “Wanna hang out with them instead? We could get Joe and Andy to join us.”

Patrick nods, even as anxious nerves make themselves known in his stomach. “It still totally weirds me out that it'll make some kid’s night. I am so not cool enough for this.” He doesn’t give Pete time to object before elbowing him in the side and nodding towards where their other two bandmates are hanging out. “I’ll go get those two and we’ll meet you outside. Give you some time to show off to your adoring fans. And then you can do that thing where you tell them who I am.”

It’s a tease that Patrick barely means but Pete still tosses an arm over his shoulders and grants him a reassuring smile.

“Oh, come on. Our audience only shows up because of you! I mean, did you see those girls up front during the acoustic songs? I told you that would be sexy.” He nuzzles into Patrick’s neck for a second, showing no shame for his words. “I love the people that love you.”

_ And I’d love it if you were one of them  _

Patrick bites his tongue before the words can escape, flinching away from Pete at the sudden burst of pain.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “You can go love them outside, then. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes, okay? Go spend some time with them while you can. You know security likes to push us into the buses as fast as possible.”

Pete pulls away before Patrick has to push him off his shoulder. Patrick shoves down the second of longing that climbs up his throat and ignores the voice in his head that tells him to pull Pete back. He takes a second to watch Pete bounce off— more skipping than actual walking or running— to the exit, tugging the closest security guard with him as he shoves the door open, and shakes off the familiar feeling of being left behind. After properly scolding himself for the irrational feeling, he pastes on a smile and turns to find Joe and Andy.

“Hey!” He says, interrupting some conversation about whether or not Joe’s been the one hiding Andy’s drumsticks as some sort of prank. “Pete was—”

“Good idea!” Joe exclaims, pointing in some random direction as if gesturing towards the absent bassist. “I bet Pete’s the one who’s been hiding them!”

Andy crosses his arms, unamused. “I found them in  _ your  _ bag. I had to play a show holding drumsticks that smell like  _ your  _ dirty clothes. Do you know disgusted I am right now?”

Joe shrugs, clearly fighting down a guilty laugh. “How do you know what my, specifically  _ my,  _ dirty clothes—”

“Hey!” Patrick says, trying for a bit of a louder volume. “If you guys wanna hang with some fans before rolling out, now would be the time. Pete’s already out there and he sent me to check if you wanted to join. And, yes, Joe is the one who’s been hiding the drumsticks. I saw him sneaking them into his bunk last night.”

Patrick grins at Joe’s affronted and betrayed “Dude!” and nods towards the exit, waiting for an answer. Andy grumbles about revenge under his breath but rolls his eyes and smiles anyway.

“Sounds cool. Let’s go before Pete scares everyone away,” he says. Patrick laughs along with him and smiles sweetly back at Joe. The guitarist refuses to drop his look of utter betrayal but tags along anyway, acting a bit in shock.

The cool night air welcomes Patrick into its arms as the group makes it outside, at last, the slightest breeze brushing across his cheeks. Patrick smiles and sighs in relief as the lingering sensation of stage lights and thousands of eyes wears off. He hesitates to venture into the sight of the fans crowded around Pete, the bassist’s laugh carrying through the air like one of their songs. Some girl is showing him a picture she drew, something with dark ink that Patrick can’t make out from where he stands. Joe walks closer to see it, his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face when Pete waves him over with a gesture towards the drawing. Andy starts to head that way as well but gets sidetracked by a mother asking him to sign something for her sons. Patrick grins and leans back against the wall beside the door that’s slammed shut behind them. He tells himself that he should head over, that he’s being rude to the fans who’ve loyally waited for their appearance. But the rush of confidence that comes after every show only lasts so long and, besides, the other three are entertaining these kids just fine without him. Not that Patrick’s complaining. Of course not. They deserve this.

So, Patrick watches with a fond smile as conversations drift through the night, small snippets making their way to him. He hears the ever-present declarations of love and inspiration mixed with unique tales of how far someone drove for this show or which song is their favorite. It’s nice to step outside of those talks for a while, to watch how his friends’ faces light up from a different angle. A few girls walk over to him and ask for a picture but they don’t stay long, fluttering over to Pete’s crowd with nervous giggles. Patrick chuckles a bit at the sight, relating all too well to their anxious blushes and wide-eyed stares. Pete smiles at them and it’s so blinding Patrick has to close his eyes. 

They can’t have been shut for more than ten seconds before someone is saying his name.

“Patrick, right? You’re the singer?”

Patrick opens his eyes slowly to see a stranger staring back at him, tall and bespectacled. He’s standing a bit too close for comfort but his smile is nice and he extends a hand when Patrick nods.

“I’m Ian. You did great up there tonight,” he says, shaking Patrick’s hand with a wide smile. Patrick can’t help but grin back and pull himself off the wall in an attempt to seem more professional.

“Well, thanks,” Patrick says. “It’s always awesome to hear that people enjoy the show. The other guys try to tell me not to be nervous about my voice but it doesn’t really have the same effect, you know?”

Ian runs a hand through his hair— a dirty-blond shade and a bit too short be considered attractive— and his shoulders shake with a burst of laughter.

“Yeah, well,” he trails off and fidgets, shifting his weight from foot to foot as Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Is it a bit too forward to say that your voice isn’t all I was complimenting?”

Patrick’s other eyebrow raises and his eyes widen. 

“Oh, oh, um,” he stammers, hating the blush he can feel crawling up his face. Ian seems to smirk at his discomfort and Patrick rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I, um, no, not at all. Thanks? I think?”

Ian laughs, half relieved and half as amused as before. “Sorry, I don’t mean to make this awkward.” 

“No, it’s my fault,” Patrick admits, though he can’t help but grin. “I don’t often— I mean…People don’t typically take the time to talk to me, you know?”

“Really?” Ian’s nose crinkles and his glasses slip down at the action. “Cute little thing like yourself, I’d imagine you get this kinda encounter every night.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, though he stammers over his words at the compliment. “Uh, yeah, it’s— Definitely not. So, um, if this is awkward, that’s why…yeah…. ”

“Well,” Ian says with a chuckle, leaning in with his arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe the guys or girls or whatever you’re into are just a bit scared you’re taken. I mean, you’ve gotta have someone that’s gonna get jealous, right? A clingy girlfriend back home? Or someone a bit closer? That bassist of yours had his eyes on you basically the whole set and I’d hate to get on his bad side so if I need to back off—”

“What!?” Patrick shrieks, voice jumping up a few octaves. His eyes dart to Pete just in time to see him glance over at the sound, concern etched into his features. Patrick looks away, certain he’s as red as a tomato and as obvious as he feels. “We’re not…I mean,  _ yeah _ , there are rumors but it’s not like…Pete and I, we aren’t….We don’t.”

Ian laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Ok, ok, I get it! It was a joke. My friend’s sister always talks about you two so I thought I’d see if her fantasies can come true. Sorry if I struck a nerve with it.”

“It’s not—” Patrick clears his throat, determined to make it through, at least, one full sentence. “We’re just friends. I hate the rumors about us and I really wasn’t expecting it to come up so I freaked out a bit.”

Ian’s eyes narrow just a fraction. “It’s not, like, a homophobic thing, right? You hating the rumors, that is.”

Patrick laughs unexpectedly and the tension in the air eases just a bit. “If it was a homophobic thing, I don’t think I’d still be talking to you right now.”

Ian’s eyes seem to darken and he leans forward just an inch. “Oh? Is that so?”

Patrick’s words catch up to him and he tries to back up once he realizes what he’d said. His back meets the wall and he’s forced to step forward. “I mean, I guess? This isn’t exactly the sort of conversation people have when they’re just casually talking. So. Unless that wasn’t what you—”

“Oh, it’s what I meant alright,” Ian says. His demeanor seems to shift before Patrick’s eyes, his grin becoming a smirk and his overall presence enlarging until Patrick can’t seem to breathe. Ian takes a step away but the way his eyes scan up and down Patrick’s body leaves an uncomfortable air between them. “Hey, do you wanna, maybe, head back inside? Just for a second?”

Patrick swallows loudly, replaying the conversation they’d just had and trying to figure out how they got to this point so suddenly.

“I don’t really know if security will let you back there. Besides, the doors are probably already locked.” Patrick plays it off with a nervous laugh, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying to make himself seem as unafraid as he’s certain he should be. Ian merely shrugs, undeterred.

“No problem,” he says. His eyes shift to the right, where the lights of the buildings can’t quite extend to wrap around the corner. “I just think it’d be nice to go somewhere quieter. It’s kind of hard to flirt properly with all these teenage girls screaming around us.”

Somehow, Patrick feels an insult in those words; he hears a snide remark about the audience his band may draw. But his mouth has gone dry and Ian’s tone doesn’t exactly leave room for argument.

“Sure,” Patrick says slowly. “Let me just tell Pete that—”

“The bassist?” Ian barks out a harsh laugh. “I think he’s a bit overwhelmed by fans right now. Besides, we won’t be gone that long. I’m sure he won’t even miss you.”

Ian’s talking about the short absence, making a point that Patrick will be back before anyone notices. But Patrick hears the other connotation, the sound of Ian saying Pete won’t miss him—  _ can’t  _ miss him. He has people like Jessica around him now, pretty girls and flirty boys that could easily fill the role Patrick’s carved out for himself in Pete’s life. Patrick glances over, hoping to catch Pete’s eye and prove himself wrong. 

Pete’s too busy posing for a picture— his arm thrown over a tall brunette’s shoulders and his lips twisted into his signature growl— to notice.

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick says, even as all his senses scream at him not to. “Let’s go.”

Ian grins and grabs his wrist. Patrick stumbles along as Ian drags him towards the darkened shadows on the side of the building, hiding them from the view of fans or security. Patrick’s heart pounds in his chest and his palms begin to sweat. It almost feels like a reaction to the dark, the way a child hides under blankets and pillows once the light has been shut off. But Patrick has nothing other than his oversized hoodie and too large hat to duck behind. Still, the dark finds him in the corners of Ian’s twisted smirk, the sudden intent in his eyes, and the bruising grip traveling up his arm.

“So,” Ian says, finally letting Patrick go. “You’re cute.”

Patrick laughs nervously, wiping his hands off on his jeans. “I think you already said that. Or, something like that.”

Ian steps closer. “Well. It’s true.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, staring at the taller boy’s forehead instead of his eyes. “I guess.”

Ian fixes his glasses and chuckles lightly for what feels like the tenth time tonight. Patrick swallows and he knows what’s supposed to happen next, what a scene like this is supposed to end in. He knows that there’s a reason Ian brought him here; he just doesn’t know why he followed.

“So,” Ian says, raising an eyebrow and licking his lips. Patrick copies the action, more out of anxiety than anything else. 

How many times has Pete done this, behind his back or right in front of his face? How many times has he dragged pretty boys and pretty girls into darkened alleys with the same smirk and gleam in his eyes? Does he look at them with the same look that Ian has? Does he look at them the same way he looks at Patrick?

Patrick doesn’t want to think about Pete. Not right now.

“So,” he says, leaning in close. He allows himself to smile and, he realizes, if he squints his eyes just enough, it almost looks like Ian has pitch black hair.

Pete probably doesn’t even think of Patrick whenever he has someone else— someone prettier, smarter, thinner,  _ better _ —- in his arms and in his sight. He wouldn’t ponder so long about if his absence will be noticed or if anyone is worried. He wouldn’t let his mind be tainted by any distractions— like Patrick’s name or the time the bus will leave. 

Why would Patrick— Patrick, who’s only ever wanted to be enough for Pete— allow himself to do the same?

Ian parts his lips to speak. But Patrick’s already on his toes and pressing his own lips against them.

Ian lets out a muffled sound of shock, the noise coursing from the back of his throat and straight to Patrick’s. Patrick shuts his eyes and revels in the feeling of being pulled closer, not pushed away. Of being held. Of being wanted.

“Not one to hesitate, are you?” Ian laughs, pulling away from him a little breathlessly. Patrick returns the sound, his eyes still tightly shut.

“Don’t talk,” he murmurs, moving his mouth to Ian’s jaw, his hands wrapped in the boy’s collar and tugging him down. “We don’t have much time.”

Ian chuckles again but, thankfully, doesn’t speak. His hands find Patrick’s shoulders and he slams him against the wall, their lips connecting once more.

There are no meanings behind their kisses, nothing more than lust and want. But Patrick wants to cry at the feeling, at the warmth, each time they touch. Even the cold that comes in the mere seconds they part for air is enough to remind Patrick that it happened, that  _ someone  _ cares enough to kiss him. Someone thinks he’s enough. 

Ian curses as their bodies begin to rock together. Patrick lets out a whine as one of Ian’s legs fits between Patrick’s thighs, rubbing against his crotch. Patrick doesn’t remember getting hard but his mind goes fuzzy at the feeling. He licks his lips, hands reaching to tangle in Ian’s hair as the other boy dots kisses along his neck. He should tell him to be careful, to leave no marks, but the more destructive part of Patrick’s mind keeps him quiet. Maybe, if he comes back to the bus with a mess of hickeys and a satisfied smirk, he’ll look like something worth wanting. He’ll look like something worth keeping.

He deliberately keeps a specific name out of his mind.

“Fuck,” Ian says, his voice hushed but frantic as he grinds against Patrick. “Fuck, Patrick. I wanna,  _ fuck _ , I want…”

Patrick laughs and goes in for a kiss again, abusing the fact that he can. He laughs against Ian’s mouth. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”

“I…” Ian slows down, stops moving so he can have the breath to speak. “I want to fuck you. Can I fuck you, Trick?”

Patrick freezes and everything slams to a halt.

Ian takes no notice, chuckling even as Patrick grows tense against him. “Well? Gonna let me fuck you against this wall? Let me kiss you and touch you until you can’t even breathe without wanting me?”

Patrick shuts his eyes and shoves his lips against Ian’s, wanting the other boy to shut up for just a moment. But Ian moves away and, for a second, Patrick swears he can hear Pete in his words.

“I’ll make it so good for you, Trick. I’ll give you everything you want and then make you desperate for more.”

_ Desperate _

_ DesperateDesperateDesperateDesperate _

Patrick jerks away, blood spilling from his bottom lip as he rips it free from between Ian’s teeth. His hands shake and fumble as he wraps his fingers around Ian’s arms, shoving him away.

His breath comes quick as the words play through his mind, from Ian’s whisper of that cursed nickname to the promise to make him any more desperate than he already is. 

Patrick can’t continue this, not without causing himself more pain, and he was a fool to ever pretend otherwise. Even when wrapped up in another man’s arms, even with someone else’s warmth across his lips, Patrick can’t stop thinking about the one person he wishes this was. He can’t stop acting as if anything will change. He blinks and feelings of guilt and disloyalty crawl up his throat, forming words halfway through. 

He’s not being disloyal to anyone other than his own emotions. He knows this. Still, he lets his emotions for Pete settle into his bones like lifelong aches. He reminds himself that only one person can ever have the strength to make those aches go away— even if the cure is temporary.

“Wait, I’m sorry, I don’t—” Patrick cuts off with an unwilling moan as Ian attaches his lips to Patrick’s neck in stinging bites and kisses. “ —I don’t think we should do this. I…I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Ian pulls away as if Patrick had threatened him. His eyes widen from behind his glasses and his hands drop from where they had been brushing through Patrick’s hair.

That should be the end of it. He should curse Patrick and be angry and he should leave. He should ask questions and maybe linger a bit longer than the singer would like. But this should be the end. Ian should be willing to leave.

“What?” Ian asks, incredulous and offended. “You’re gonna get this far and stop just like that?”

Patrick swallows thickly, embarrassment and shame clogging his throat like a sob. He shrugs and tries to find the words to say. He tries to think of how to make Ian leave sooner than he will.

Ian’s face contorts into a snarl and Patrick’s feelings of shame begin to shape a different emotion. Anxiety causes his heart rate to pick up and he tries to back away, to no avail.

Patrick had expected anger. He never expected this.

Ian’s hands find Patrick’s shoulders and Patrick finds himself shoved hard against the wall. He has a second of confusion, a moment of hesitation, before Ian is in his face, hissing out insults Patrick tries not to understand.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ian snarls. His grip grows tighter, causing Patrick to let out a short yelp of pain. Ian doesn’t let up. “I did  _ not  _ waste my night at this stupid fucking show just to get turned down by a brat like you. Think you’re so much better, don’t you, cause you’re in some stupid band? Think you can just lead people on and decide to leave because you’re bored? Fuck no, I’ll show you. Make you think twice before shoving someone away again…”

His voice trails off but his words linger in Patrick’s mind, ringing through his brain with painful clarity. Part of him tries not to understand what it means as Ian drags a hand down Patrick’s body, stopping right above his pants. He wants to be wrong about what Ian wants.

The second that Ian undoes Patrick's jeans and yanks down the zipper, is like a siren going off in his brain. And, suddenly, he isn’t so frozen anymore.

“What the fuck? Stop!” Patrick shouts, hoping someone will hear the noise and come their way. “Get away from me!”

He shoves against Ian’s chest and raises his fists with the intent of gaining the space needed to run away. But Ian catches his hands easily, pinning his wrists to the wall. Patrick’s shouts are muffled as Ian leans down to kiss him once again.

It’s nothing like the kisses they had shared before, nothing like the intimacy Patrick had imagined they had shared. Now, Ian’s actions are nothing more than a powerplay, proving he has control over the boy beneath him. He’s saying that he’s better and stronger and going to get what he wants. Terror spikes in Patrick’s mind as he realizes that Ian might be right.

Ian pulls away and Patrick thrashes against him, his wrists held over his head in one of Ian’s hands as the other boy begins to undo his belt. Patrick tries kicking out, tries yanking his hands free, and tries knocking his head into Ian’s when he grows close enough. His breaths are ragged and he can barely breathe, let alone scream, as Ian laughs into the air around them. Ian rubs against him mockingly, moaning lewdly into his ear.

“You’re gonna feel so good, Trick. I can’t wait,” he chuckles, finally getting his belt off. Patrick’s vision goes blurry at the nickname and for a moment all he can feel is Pete’s hands against his wrists, Pete’s voice calling him  _ desperate _ , Pete’s breath against his cheek but never against his lips, Pete Pete Pete Pete Pete

Ian slips a hand into his pants and Patrick screams the only name he knows.

“ _ Pete!  _ Help! Please, Pete! P—”

Patrick cuts off with a violent choking sound, pain exploding in his throat as Ian’s hand locks around his neck. One thread of air makes its way out of his lungs before Ian is tightening his hold, releasing Patrick’s wrists to add his other hand to the action. Patrick claws at Ian’s arms and tries to scream-- tries to  _ breathe _ . The only sounds that escape into the air are Ian’s cruel words.

“You’re so fucking stupid. You really think he’ll get here in time? You really think your weak-ass bassist is going to leave his adoring fans to come save  _ you _ ? You’re fucking pathetic, Trick. Just shut up, okay? It’ll be over soon.”

Patrick’s lungs scream in agony and he gasps uselessly, searching for air he can’t reach. He’s too busy fighting for his breath to care about Ian’s words. He barely feels his jeans being tugged down, let alone the pain of some bassist he can’t be bothered to think of right now.

Tears slide down his cheeks as he yanks uselessly at Ian’s hand, still wrapped around his throat and depriving him of breath. Black spots appear in his vision and all he can think about is his need for air, for oxygen, for just one second of breath please he’ll die without it, he’ll do anything he’s so desperate to breathe he— 

“ —wrong? I thought I heard you scream, is everything okay…”

Someone’s voice trails off, worry punctuating their words. Relief allows Patrick to open his eyes, unaware that he had even closed them. They search for the source, for some form of rescue. Ian hesitates, his grip loosening just enough for Patrick to take a breath. Just enough for one word to escape.

“Help.”

Ian’s fingers dig deeply into his skin at that, bruising his hip and his neck. He presses against Patrick’s body as if he can hide him from whoever has wandered into the alley at just the wrong time.

“Shut up,” he says. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you.”

Patrick doesn’t have time to decide whether or not he believes this threat because, less than a second later, Ian’s warmth disappears with devastating abruptness.

“Get off of him!”

Patrick falls to the ground the second he’s able to move, dragging desperate breaths into his lungs and clutching at his chest as if trying to physically tear out the pain embedded there. Distantly, he can recognize voices shouting and the sound of fists against skin. His name is said more than once by both voices but never at him. Patrick shuts his eyes and wishes for the tears racing down his cheeks to stop. But he’s shaking too violently to hold himself up and his stomach is in a million knots. He can barely convince his mind that he’s safe and he jumps with a shriek as something clatters to the ground beside him. 

He opens his eyes slowly, carefully, and focuses on the pair of broken glasses that had fallen, blood dotting the side of the frames. He knows he should look up as someone scurries away, leaving the glasses behind. He knows that he should look away when someone starts saying his name—  _ to  _ him, this time— but he can’t. He can’t bring himself to move.

“God _ damnit _ , Patrick! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Someone is saying, is shouting. Patrick trembles from the violent sound but words are a foreign concept. He can't find anything other than raw emotion swarming his mind. “I thought you would be the  _ last  _ person to do something so stupid. What were you thinking? Did you fucking follow him here? Did you think there was any possible way this could end well? What if I hadn’t heard you? Did you even think of that? He could have…You could be  _ dead _ .”

Patrick doesn’t know when he started crying again, doesn’t know when he shut his eyes. But he does know that he’s ashamed and that he’s scared. He does know that everything this person is saying is right.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “I didn’t…I don’t know what I was thinking.”

There’s silence. There are more tears. Someone slowly kneels down in front of Patrick and Patrick flinches when he feels a hand over his.

“Hey.” The voice is soft, gentle. It’s everything Patrick can’t deserve right now. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was just scared. Hey, look at me. Are you okay?”

Patrick’s mind screams at him that it’s safer with his eyes shut, that the world can only invade so much if he refuses to see any of it. But someone is stroking gentle circles across the back of his hand; someone is apologizing for Patrick’s mistake.

Against his better judgment, Patrick opens his eyes.

“There you are.” Pete smiles and it hits Patrick like the fist that no doubt shattered Ian’s nose not too long ago.

“ _ Pete _ ,” Patrick sobs. It feels like he just learned the name; it sounds like he’s never let it cross his lips before. He knows that he should feel ashamed but he doesn't know why. He knows that when Pete carefully collects him into a comforting embrace, pain and wanting should cause him to cry harder. But none of these things transpire. Patrick’s too busy reliving the attack to focus on issues as small as this crush.

“Are you okay?” Pete asks again, rubbing Patrick’s back with one hand and brushing through his hair with the other. Patrick hesitates, still too scared to lie.

“My throat hurts,” he says, finally, nuzzling closer to Pete. “And I think he bruised my wrists.”

Pete pulls him tighter, saying nothing. Patrick wraps his arms around Pete, scared the other man might try to leave. 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says again, letting the last of his tears soak into Pete’s hoodie. “I didn’t know that he…I just thought— I  _ wanted _ —”

“Shh,” Pete hushes, rocking him slightly. “You don’t have to talk about it right now. You don’t have to talk about it to me  _ ever _ if you don’t want to.”

“Alright,” Patrick nods. He sniffles a few more times. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Pete says in a sterner tone. “ _ I’m _ sorry for shouting. I heard you scream for me and I thought something might be wrong but I didn’t think— And then when I saw him on you, I couldn’t comprehend it, there was no way that something like that could happen to  _ my  _ Trick…And then you asked for help and I saw that he was hurting you and…and I saw fucking  _ red _ . I couldn’t bare the thought of losing you like that. I should have bashed his fucking head in for even thinking of touching you but he ran off after a few hits and I was so pissed that he was able to run off at all and then I saw you just sitting there and….And. I don’t know. I was so mad at him and at the situation but not at you, never at you. Just. Just don’t let me lose you, Trick. Don’t leave me.”

Patrick pulls Pete tighter against him until they’re both burying their faces in each other’s necks. Patrick’s tears have dried and a numbness has begun to spread across his mind and body. But he can still hear the waver in Pete’s voice; he can feel the dampness of tears across his neck.

“It’s impossible, Pete,” Patrick murmurs. “It’s impossible for you to lose me.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>     

_ Breathe in; breathe out. Breathe in; breathe out. Calm down and take a breath. You’re safe now. You’re safe. You’re safe. _

_ You’re safe _

It’s Pete’s voice in Patrick’s mind as Patrick tries to sleep that night. It’s Pete’s breathing that he’s trying to match, the other man refusing to leave his side even an hour or so after the attack.

_ In. Out. Are you okay? Are you alright? Is there anything I can do to help? _

Pete had helped Patrick back to the bus, an arm around him for support and a nasty glare for anyone who dared to send any sort of suspicious looks their way. Luckily, most of the fans were gone by the time Patrick had found the ability to stand without collapsing. He's glad. He doesn’t know how he could have faced them without feeling like they would somehow  _ know  _ what had just occurred.

He doesn’t know how he could have gone out there with the chance that Ian was still lurking around.

The thought had caused him to huddle closer to Pete as if trying to meld into him. Pete hadn’t said anything about it, merely tightened his hold and walked a little faster.

_ I’ll stay with you all night if it will make you feel better. I’ll stay up and make sure you don’t have any nightmares about it. I’ll get you anything you want and anything you need. You don’t have to talk to me about it. You don’t have to tell the other guys. Just let me take care of you, alright? That’s all I ask. _

Pete had fussed over Patrick the second the bus door shut behind them, Joe and Andy glancing up from the lounge with confusion and concern evident in their faces. Patrick had pulled the collar of his shirt up to hide the bruises and the hickies. Pete was in the middle of making him some tea when Joe had asked.

“Is something wrong? What happened?”

Patrick hadn’t meant to freeze up or choke on his breath while trying to find out how to explain. He hadn’t meant to look to Pete for help but he did so all the same.

_ Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Stop messing with him, man. That’s my job. _

No amount of joking could hide the worry or affection Patrick saw deep in Pete’s eyes as he helped him change, Patrick silent and unblushing for once as Pete’s hands skimmed across his body. For once, Patrick couldn’t care less if Pete could see all of him or if Pete planned on sharing his bed again. 

In retrospect, maybe his heart should have pounded a little harder when Pete climbed in beside him. Maybe his first thoughts should have been  _ no no no I can’t have him here right now I can’t give him what he wants I can’t give him the only thing he ever wants from me _

But, here he is. Not once did those thoughts cross his mind; not for a second did he doubt Pete’s compassion.

Even now, with Pete curled around him protectively and his eyes staring into Patrick’s intently, Patrick can’t find it in him to be heartbroken. He can’t bring himself to care that this concern won’t last more than a day or a week. And it’s different from before because, this time, he knows that— beneath the worry and care— Pete’s feelings for him haven’t changed. He knows that Pete can’t love him in the same way and, just like before, Patrick is numb to it. 

He became numb to it the second Ian pressed those bruises into his neck, the moment his  _ needwantlove  _ for Pete in his life was replaced with the desperate  _ needwantlove  _ for oxygen in his lungs.

Patrick hasn’t spoken since Pete helped him off the ground, hasn’t breathed a word because he now knows what it’s like to not be able to breathe at all. Patrick knows that Pete’s scared, perhaps more scared than he, but Patrick also knows that this won't become a big deal-- he won't let it. Patrick tells himself he's getting better. Or, he will, at least. He has to. 

Pete lets out a breath and leans down to press his forehead against Patrick’s. His motions are slow and controlled, calm and peaceful in every way Patrick had sworn his interactions with Pete should never be again. Pete sighs once more, almost breaking Patrick free from his thoughts.

Almost. But not quite.

Because— though he hasn’t found his voice or will to speak just yet— Patrick’s thoughts have been racing. The second Patrick felt Pete hugging him but no more than that— no longing or remorse or  _ desperation—  _ his thoughts picked up on something. And they haven’t let go.

The thought has multiplied in his head and scattered through his mind, forcing him to give it every second of his attention. The thought carries the amount of importance that only music and Pete have been able to carry before. And Patrick can’t bring himself to care because Patrick is numb.

He’s numb.

Patrick reaches out and rests his hand on Pete’s shoulder, bundling up the fabric of his shirt and holding tightly to ground himself as his thoughts try to force him to take flight. He flinches when Pete scoots closer, a second of disorder in this movement, but neither of them mentions it. 

Pete’s shirt is rough in his hand, the once soft material now burdened by stains and too many days without a proper wash. He squeezes it in his fist over and over, taking deep breaths to keep himself from falling too deep into the plan his mind is forming.

He should be scared. He should be smart enough to know that this plan would never work.

But something did work tonight. Something made his problems disappear.

Ian’s hands around his throat and fear choking him worse than his attacker ever could….Fear was the last thing Patrick felt.

He wonders how long this apathy will last and if allowing himself to become so deadened is letting Ian win in some twisted way. He almost convinces himself to cry and scream and lash out just so he could feel  _ something _ .

But then Pete pulls away and looks at Patrick with mournful eyes. He reaches up— slowly, slowly, slowly— and forces Patrick’s fist to unclench. Patrick hisses as his eyes dart to the action. Somehow, while lost in his thoughts, the fabric had slipped through his fingers and he’d tightened his hold all the same. Dark crescents show where his nails had dug into his skin; they prove just how far feeling nothing can go.

Pete looks down at Patrick’s hand and strokes his thumb over the wounds and, just for a second, Patrick swears he can feel his heart speed up. He can feel the familiar tug of want and need and love and desperation and he needs to make it stop he has to make it stop--

Ian.

 Bruises. 

Gasping for air and finding none. 

Loneliness and foolishness and terrible decisions when no one is looking. 

Patrick blinks over and over as he reminds himself why he’s numb. He reminds himself of why his neck is the only place he’s allowed to feel any pain.

Pete’s eyes move up to meet his and they widen, just enough for Patrick to notice. He drops Patrick’s hand and reaches out— quickly at first but then so, so slowly— to run his fingers across Patrick’s cheek. Patrick congratulates himself for not flinching but then he notices why Pete suddenly looks so much sadder. He realizes why Pete is running his fingers his reverently over Patrick’s face.

Pete pulls his hand away and wipes the tears onto the sheets beneath them. Patrick hadn’t even noticed he was crying. He hadn’t even felt the tears streaming down his cheeks.

He can’t feel anything anymore.

He’s too numb. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just realized that it's basically been about a year since I started this fic and NOTHING HAS MADE ME FEEL GUILTIER THAN THAT FACT. Goodness gracious, I need to start uploading on a more regular schedule! Haha, sometimes I try to console myself with that fact that "at least the other fic was done in about two months" but, honestly, that excuse can't work forever and, the more I say it, the more I realize that it's no excuse at all. If I could give Until We Die more effort, why can't I do so with this?? SO with summer break here and everything, I swear that I will try to post more!!!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and, please, comment if you'd like! :)


	7. I'm [not] Asking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eyy, I heard you like Angst so I put some Angst on your Angst.
> 
> ((This is actually a pretty emotional one imo I apologize both for that and for the length in advance see ya))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This one's long.
> 
> Oh!! And I'm still alive! God, I'm so sorry for taking forever with this one. There was a lot of issue with being in the right mental....space, I suppose....to be writing this. I won't bore you with my life but basically, I had to deal with some idiots who, for lack of a better explanation, decided it would be fun to express their absolute hatred for me.
> 
> ANYWAY this one's a long one. It's because I debated between: 
> 
> 1\. Update sooner but with a really short one
> 
> or
> 
> 2\. Update later but with a really long one
> 
> This is what we ended up with.
> 
> Anyway, this note's long enough. So! Enjoy the chapter and THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone that's been reading, commenting, leaving kudos, bookmarking, etc. It means more than you know :)
> 
> Enjoy!

**I’m [not] Asking**

 

Two. 

The number of days that have passed since….since Ian. Since The Incident. If it were up to Patrick, there would be no capital letters but anytime Pete tiptoes around it— anytime he looks over with worried eyes and asks if Patrick’s still upset from The Incident— Patrick can feel them there. Overwhelming. Authoritative. Permanent.

Two.

The number of shows they’ve had since Ian and The Incident. They hadn’t been able to take a break, despite Pete’s pestering, without giving a reasonable excuse. Everyone on the bus saw Patrick’s bruises but Patrick refused to tell them why they were there. He refused to be the reason the band had to be put on hold— even if it would only be for two days.

Two.

The number of nights that Pete has spent in Patrick’s bed and remained there until morning, all his actions as innocent as a G rated movie. Patrick hadn’t cared enough to change that, hadn’t escaped his own mind long enough to question whether this meant they were drifting apart or fusing back together. He hadn’t opened his eyes to the world for longer than the moments it took to play a show and greet some fans. If Pete had to be at his side while they did so, scanning each fan up and down as if they’ve all become Ian overnight….Well. Then they haven’t spoken about it to each other.

Two.

The number of days that have passed since Ian. The number of shows they’ve had since The Incident. The number of nights that Pete has held Patrick in his arms like nothing else mattered.

The number of times Pete had called him “Trick”. 

And the number of days it took for Patrick to notice.

Two. 

Patrick stares at the wall inside his bunk— Pete’s arms wrapped around him just like Patrick’s always wanted— and ponders about that number.

Two.

Twice, Pete had called him by the nickname only ever shared where no one could hear. Twice, Pete had let it roll off his tongue without a hesitation or reservation. Twice. And Patrick didn’t even flinch.

As the others on the bus begin to wake up and bustle around, marking the start of the third day, Patrick reaches and lets his fingers skim across the sensitive skin of his neck, gasping as he does so. He jerks back on impulse, the mere thought of the black and blue marks causing him to pull his hand away. Behind him, Pete shifts before settling back down into sleep again. Patrick sighs.

Two.

Two days may have passed but it was only one day that he felt as numb as the moment Ian’s hand wrapped around his throat. It’s been one day since his feelings have started to flow back into him like the dripping of a leaky faucet and he’s not ready.

He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready.

It started yesterday when he woke up to Pete’s nose pressed against his cheek and his arms wrapped around him like a vice. It hadn’t been anything at first, nothing more than a reality.

But then Pete had whispered his name—  _ Patrick—  _ in his sleep and it all started coming back. Not all at once like he might have expected. 

It started from the outside in. It started with the blush on his cheeks and the widening of his eyes— nothing more than muscle memory and instinct causing him to do so. 

And then he felt his stomach flip. He felt the gasp of air rush past his lips. He felt a second of that desire and need from before and he was out of the bunk, kneeling on the ground and willing himself to calm down. To stop overreacting. To feel nothing.

Of course, it hadn’t helped that Pete had been there in an instant, rubbing his back and asking what was wrong. Patrick had blamed it on The Incident and that had been that.

Now, though, with Patrick ignoring Pete’s close proximity as best as he can, he’s not so certain he can get away with doing so another time. Not with Pete’s breaths brushing across Patrick’s cheek with innocent familiarity. Not with the feeling that those aches— those desperate thoughts of how this could be something more— are coming back.

Patrick knows he can’t stay numb forever in the way that he knows the bruises on his neck will eventually fade and Ian will become nothing more than a bad memory. And Pete will have no reason to hold him so close at night.

It aches in every way it shouldn’t and Patrick shoves it back down with a thumb pressed against his own throat, digging into the bruises there like he’s the one who made them in the first place. He bites back another gasp but he can’t quite stop the way his body tenses and flinches at his own actions. 

It’s a soft flinch, barely even a jerk of his head, but Pete’s eyes fly open like Patrick had screamed.

“Wh-what's…? Patrick? Is everything alright?” His voice is groggy and his eyes are still trying to focus on the images around him. Patrick takes the chance to pull his hand away from his neck and pretend like nothing’s wrong. Pretend like he wasn’t just trying to stay numb.

“Huh? I’m…I’m fine, Pete. Just jerked awake, I guess,” Patrick lies, turning on his side to face the bassist. Pete’s lips part, most likely to ask if a nightmare had been the cause of Patrick’s odd behavior, and the singer rushes to assure him otherwise. “It wasn’t anything serious, I know you think it was. It was just…Well…You know when you’re falling asleep and you’re not really thinking of anything and then suddenly you…you feel like you’re falling? That’s all it was.”

Pete blinks a few times, conscious but not quite awake. His eyelids look heavy and he yawns, smacking his lips as he takes in what Patrick had said.

“Falling? Yeah, I get that.” He reaches out to run his fingers absently through Patrick’s hair. “You’d tell me if it were a bad dream, though, right? Like, if something were wrong, you’d let me know?”

Patrick smiles. “Of course, Pete. You’re my best friend.”

It rolls off his tongue without a hitch or pang, without a reason to make Patrick’s smile falter. Maybe his feelings can stay hidden from him a bit longer; maybe he won’t have to forget the bruises lining his neck like the thorns inked into Pete’s skin. Patrick’s eyes travel down to the tattoo at the thought, Pete’s shirtless sleeping habits making it an easy goal to obtain. Thoughtlessly, Patrick reaches out, his fingers trailing across one such thorn. Pete shivers beneath his touch but one glance up at his lazy smile lets Patrick know that he’s still thinking of sleep or his dreams. He’s not aware enough to care that Patrick’s touching him.

Or so Patrick hopes.

A second passes of Patrick’s innocent tracings of Pete’s tattoos, wondering what they felt like and if it hurt and if it’d be worth the pain to get these bruises etched into his own skin, when Pete’s hand wraps around his wrist. It’s gentle and it’s delicate. Patrick could break through the grip easily. Still, the singer pauses his breaths and looks up to reach Pete’s eyes.

“Tickles,” Pete murmurs with a chuckle, a smile in his otherwise exhausted gaze. A moment spreads out between them, silent but for their breathing. “I didn’t know you liked them.”

It’s Patrick’s turn to laugh, though it sounds more like the choked sobs he’d heard himself give when Ian had wrapped his hand around his neck. “They’re hard not to like. There’s a lot of things I like that you don’t know, I guess.”

He doesn’t realize that he’s said them, hadn’t felt their weight on his tongue or in the air until Pete blows the words back into his face with a nonchalant response.

“Yeah?” He asks, sounding horribly genuine. “Like what?”

It’s like he’s baiting Patrick, fishing for emotions inside the husk Patrick’s so determined to become. It’s like he  _ knows  _ what the answer will be and, from the intense look in his eyes, it’s like he’s been waiting a while to hear it.

“Well,” Patrick starts, the word spilling from his lips before he even knows what will follow. “I guess…I…I really like…”

Pete leans in closer and Patrick realizes that his wrist is still trapped in Pete’s warm hand, crushed between their chests, and Patrick instinctively moves in closer to Pete.

He meets Pete’s eyes and the expectation he finds waiting there is like nothing Patrick’s ever seen in his life. 

His cheeks burn red and he licks his lips, trying to find words he’d never had to begin with. He can’t tear his gaze away from the man before him; he’s not sure if he wants to.

“Yeah?” Pete encourages, his voice a whisper because anything louder would be overkill in the small space between them. 

Patrick’s stomach flips. His breaths come quickly. This bunk is too hot and he can’t think and he feels like Pete’s giving him a chance and he feels like—

_ He feels _

He feels terrified at the fact that he can feel at all. The slow drip of the faucet has sped up and each time he looks at Pete it leads to the violent splashing of water hitting the bottom of the sink.

“I don’t…” Patrick’s still letting Pete hold onto his wrist, still letting the other look at him with wide eyes. If Pete’s so certain he knows what Patrick’s going to say, why doesn’t he say it first? “I can’t think of anything right now.”

“That’s alright,” Pete says. He licks his lips and, oh  _ god _ , is that distracting. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Patrick tries to choke out a word but his eyes are still stuck on Pete’s mouth. He tries to find a way out of this but his mind is still panicking from the influx of emotions trying to make their way back in.

And, suddenly, a terrible idea enters his thoughts. 

He’s already blaming it on Pete before the thought is even fully complete. He’s already blaming Pete and his stupid questions and his stupid, stupid lips.

The lips Patrick’s only ever felt— truly felt— once, years ago.

He wonders if he’ll still feel nothing if he kisses Pete; he wonders if this numb feeling will last long enough to allow him. He wonders if it will break through the barriers Ian helped him build against his emotions or if he’ll only end up breaking himself. Mostly, though, he wonders why he’s never tried before.

Patrick swallows with a wince, a dull pain still lingering in the muscles, but doesn’t dare to flinch away from his thoughts. He can’t even bring himself to blink. His heart beats loudly in his ears and his cheeks burn in ways that Patrick’s certain give away his thoughts. 

“I think I thought of something,” Patrick says, at last. His voice gives out near the end, dropping into something inaudible but it’s okay. The twitch in the corners of Pete’s lips tells Patrick that he understood every word.

Pete nods, allowing stillness to fill the space between them as he pulls Patrick even closer and his grip grows even tighter. Though his hand is warm and inescapable around Patrick’s wrist, it’s still gentle; it’s still kind. It’s like he’s purposefully keeping away from being controlling or painful or Ian. He’s always anything but that. 

The noise from outside the bunk and the feeling of the road rumbling beneath them begin to fade away. It’s like Patrick’s falling asleep and he can’t think of anything other than the way Pete’s leaning forward like he has the same idea in his head. His mind goes blank and he shuts his eyes, Pete’s hand moving from his wrist and up his arm, a featherlight touch that causes Patrick to struggle with his breathing.

Maybe this is it. Maybe, one way or another, he’ll lock away his emotions through the rejection that’s sure to follow or the realization that he’ll feel nothing when it happens. Maybe everything will be okay.

Patrick’s practically falling asleep in just the way he described. 

But then he feels Pete’s breath on his face and Patrick

Starts

Falling.

_ Too much too fast too soon too real TOO MUCH _

Patrick pulls away with a sudden gasp, eyes flying open like he’s fallen off the side of a cliff. Pete stares back at him, lips parted and expression soft. Somehow, in the midst of everything, his hand had moved from Patrick’s arm to his neck, cupping the back of Patrick’s head slightly and pulling him close, their eyes lined up just right, their lips centimeters apart as if Pete had really been…As if, more than thinking it, he’d been planning on letting them touch, letting them connect in a way that he said should never happen. It’s like he was going to let it happen and….

And the faucet from before doesn’t drip. 

It turns on all the way.

Patrick can barely breathe from the sudden rush of want and need that settles into his bones, can’t even speak from the weight of desire pressing against his lungs. His heart pounds in his chest painfully, his hands begin to shake, and it’s  _ all too much. _

“I’m sorry,” Patrick chokes out, moving over Pete with jerky movements to escape the tight confines of the bunk. “I was…I was wrong.”

Falling. Sinking. Drowning in the water pouring from the faucet like hail. He’s too busy trying to breathe to care about if he hurts Pete in the way out of the bed.

He’s too busy trying to keep the bruises on his skin, fingers pressing deeply into them and tears pricking at his eyes, to hear Pete call after him.

_ It’s all too much _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Avoiding Pete and staying away from his emotions is easy when it seems like Pete may be ignoring him, too. Hours pass on the bus and, for such a small space, Patrick has little to no interaction with the bassist. They barely exchange a glance, let alone a word.

But that doesn’t mean that Patrick doesn’t have to see him.

Each time he looks at Pete, he’s reminded of the way he had shut his eyes and leaned forward like he had a chance. Every time he hears his voice, he remembers how silent it had been. Every second that the bruises on his neck begin to ache is a second that Patrick fights down the memories of his emotions flooding back into him without permission or warning.

He’s doing a bit better at being numb, he thinks, now that he’s distancing himself from Pete. The empty feeling in his gut, the blankness of his mind, the forced smiles and laughter…..What else can all that be other than the numb escape he’d been begging for just hours ago?

Patrick refuses to call it anything else. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes as he sits in the lounge, doing nothing other than stare at his reflection in the window because opening up Garageband— his usual go-to comfort in moments like these— means staring at the song he’d been writing when he’d been filled with rage and sadness and all the emotions he’s been trying to leave behind. Looking back at that would be like tearing open old wounds; it’d be like asking someone to reenact his moment with Ian just because he likes the way he doesn’t feel after it.

His breath hitches in his throat and he tells himself not to think. Thinking leads to bad ideas and bad ideas lead to Pete and Pete leads to emotions. 

“Hey, um. Uh, can we talk?”

But, sometimes, Pete shows up on his own, stumbling over his words and wringing his hands like he has any right to be nervous.

“Sure,” Patrick says, monotonous and refusing to look away from his reflection. “Is everything okay?”

It’s a habitual question, one that Patrick only asks because something in his mind recognizes that tone of voice. Something in him still cares, still  _ feels _ , and he hates it.

“Not really,” Pete admits, sitting down next to Patrick on the couch. “Can we—  _ Should  _ we talk about this morning?”

Just like Pete, jumping straight into the problem with nothing more than pleading eyes and a sad tone. 

Patrick already has ignorance playing on his tongue, the script written and ready to play out. He could frustrate Pete and pretend he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, act like nothing happened at all. But Patrick knows how it feels to think that someone loves you only to lose that thought to their nonchalance all in the same day. 

As much as he loves the man, he likes to think he’d never do that to someone.

“I guess,” he says with a heavy sigh. He turns to face Pete, though he keeps his eyes pointed towards the floor. “I mean, we should talk but I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say that it wasn’t my fault that you pulled away,” Pete says, his voice low and insistent. “I-If it’s not true, you don’t have to say it but thinking of the way you looked this morning…The way you raced to get out of the bunk and couldn’t look at me for a better part of the day…It’s been killing me. You looked  _ terrified _ , Patrick, and…and I don’t ever want to be the reason you look that way so…just tell me that I wasn’t. Please.”

Patrick takes his time answering. Not because he’s cruel but because he doesn’t know how to reassure Pete that everything’s okay. 

It wasn’t Pete’s fault. That part’s easy. 

It was entirely Patrick’s. It was his stupidity and his desperation to stay numb, to take advantage of the fact that his emotions were on hold. It was all him. Only him.

Okay. Maybe that’s not entirely true because, as Patrick had escaped into the safety of other people so that Pete couldn’t chase after him, certain words had ringed throughout Patrick’s mind. The urging from years and days ago chase after him that ‘we can’t do this’, ‘the band’s more important’, and ‘we talked about this’. 

They talked about it and Pete’s pretending like that conversation never happened.

Patrick takes a breath and shuts his eyes. “It wasn’t you. It was…I don’t know.”

_ It was the fact that you were going to let me do it. It was the fact that I was terrified that I was reading into things all wrong again. It was the fact that I couldn’t handle another heartbreak. It was the fact that this has happened before and it seems like you’re the one wanting me to go along with this pain and that just can’t work if you’re also the one who opened my eyes to its impossibility in the first place. _

“Was it about The Incident?” 

And Pete sounds so sure, so eager to believe it, that Patrick has no choice but to go along.

“Yeah, I guess,” Patrick says, opening his eyes and shrugging. Pete lets out a breath of relief. Maybe the ease that Pete’s feeling is what causes Patrick to say his next words. “It’s probably because I let Ian kiss me.”

Pete tenses, his relief short-lived as his eyes flash up to Patrick’s face. “I didn’t know he did that. Though, I guess I should have. What a fucking asshole, I should have—”

“I kissed him first, don’t worry about it,” Patrick says, as calm as Pete was when talking about Jessica. “It was one of the few things I actually had control of before things got out of hand.”

Looking up, Patrick can see Pete’s jaw clench. He can see the muscles in his mouth twisting and distorting as he fights back accusations that  _ well maybe that’s why he thought it was okay to— _

“Out of hand is a bit of an understatement,” Pete says, his voice tight. Patrick forces himself to laugh.

“It’s easier than saying what actually happened,” he admits. Pete takes a breath and holds it. Patrick watches, fascinated in how Pete fights to keep control of his emotions. If only he knew how much it costs to keep them away forever.

Well. Forever is a bit of an overstatement.

“It seemed okay, at first, you know? Like, maybe, for once, I could have something I wanted. And he was really nice and no one else was paying attention to us so it felt— I don’t know. I guess I felt  _ special _ for a while. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t going to mean anything or last very long if it also meant that I was able to kiss someone. It felt— It felt  _ really  _ good to be able to do that. I can’t remember the last time I kissed someone that—”  _ I can’t remember the last time I kissed someone that wasn’t you _ .

Patrick doesn’t know why he’s talking about this or why Pete’s listening so intently. He doesn’t know why his hands are shaking or why he’s starting to trip over his words. What he does know is that he can’t bring himself to stop.

“But then he said something that made me realize that I didn’t want to keep going. I-I tried to tell him, tried to find an easy way to get him to stop because if we kept going the way we were then it was only going to…It wasn’t going to be good. But he didn’t want to stop. I mean, obviously.” Patrick gestures to his throat with a watery laugh. “And I wasn’t strong enough to get rid of him. Not physically and not mentally. I hesitated, Pete. Because, maybe, it wouldn’t be as bad as I thought it was starting to get. Maybe, I was overreacting and he’d come to his senses about what he was doing. And, by the time I did realize, it was too late. So, yeah, I guess you could say that I’m scared to ever be in that position again.”

It’s the most honest that Patrick can get without giving anything away. He can’t tell Pete about how he needs these bruises the way he needed air just a few nights ago. He can’t let Pete know about how he needs to hold onto this numb feeling like an addict escaping from the world. He can’t tell Pete about any of this because doing so would be telling Pete he loves him. He can’t let Pete know.

“I’m never gonna let anyone hurt you again,” Pete says, his voice low but his eyes insistent. “No one’s gonna ever even think about putting their hands on you the way that creep did.”

It should reassure Patrick or, at least, it should soothe him. He should be thankful and express as much aloud.

But he can’t. He’s managed to turn the faucet down a bit, to slow it to a steady stream between the places of  _ drip drip drip  _ and the waterfall it had been before. But he can feel it trying to twist forward, to push his feelings onto him like a mother forcing her child to wear a coat in winter. He can admit that he probably needs it but he’s too stubborn to let such an embarrassing thing be caught anywhere near him, even if it does cost him his own safety.

No. Patrick isn’t reassured and he isn’t anywhere near calm. He shuts his eyes; he imagines the faucet that’s been so present in his thoughts. He struggles to find a way to shut it off, to return to the way it had been the second Pete had let the name  _ Trick  _ slip past his lips without a thought. Patrick hadn’t felt anything when he should have been hurt the most. The last time Pete had called him ‘Trick’ out of context, Patrick had basically had a panic attack. But something had happened to save him from that sort of thing when Pete had not only said it once but  _ twice  _ in the same conversation. He just needs to figure out how to turn that damned sink off. If he has to force it, so be it.

_ Drip. Drip. Drip. _

_ Ian calling him Trick and desperate and every word that only belongs to Pete _

Further, further, something happened after that. Something shut the faucet off completely.

_ Drip. Drip. Drip. _

_ Patrick pushing him away. Ian scowling. Ian promising nothing but pain. _

_ Drip, drip… _

_ Fighting, struggling, trying to scream _

_ Drip, drip… _

_ Calling Pete’s name, shouting and begging for help _

_ Drip.  _

_ Pete calling back. A rush of hope _

_ Drip _

_ Hands at his throat and suddenly…. _

Stop

Patrick’s eyes open and he’d do anything to make that faucet stop again. He told himself he’d do anything so why shouldn’t he?

“Hey, are you alright?” Pete’s asking, leaning forward with concern in his eyes. “Did you hear me? I said no one was going to touch you like—”

“I asked him to choke me.”

Suddenly, the words are in the air. Suddenly, there’s no going back. Patrick blinks, clears his mind, and looks into Pete’s eyes without a thought.

“He went too far when he got mad but…Pete, I asked him to do it. That part was…It was okay.”

If Pete can tell that Patrick’s lying, he’s doing a horrible job of showing it.

“Why would…” Pete shakes his head and tries again with less confusion and more conviction. “Why the fuck would you ask for that?”

Patrick laughs, doing his best not to avert his eyes. “Some people are into it, right? Besides, I don’t think you really have room to talk about kinks, Pete. Weren’t you the one pulling my hair and spanking me just last week?”

If Pete’s skin weren’t so tan, Patrick imagines he’d be blushing. As it is, his jaw drops and he struggles to find words, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water for a long minute.

“That’s because you asked for it,” Pete says, softly. It sounds like he’s speaking to himself-- like he’s putting pieces together but can’t quite see the picture yet. Another minute passes before he’s shaking his head and rephrasing his question once again. “Okay, whatever, fair enough. You’re a kinky little shit, I get it. But that doesn’t explain why you ask for something so extreme from  _ someone you don’t even know you can trust. _ ”

The lie’s already formulated in Patrick’s head; he can clearly see how this scene could have played out if it had happened in the way he’s making Pete imagine it.

“I didn’t know who else to ask,” he says, letting the lies roll off his tongue in a way that shouldn’t feel so natural. Pete’s eyebrows furrow together and Patrick takes it as a sign to continue. “It’s not like I really get the chance often, Pete. Not all of us are you, with waitresses and fans lining up for your bunk in every state. Though I’m not so sure I’d want to be since the last time I walked in on such a fan, she was asking you to be gentle when I know you’d rather be anything but—  _ wait a second _ .”

And that’s when the lie— the horrible, awful, needless lie— becomes something much worse. 

“Pete…Do you want to choke me?”

It becomes the possibility of becoming true and Patrick’s practically vibrating with excitement, too caught up in it to notice the widening of Pete’s eyes.

“Do I—  _ What?”  _ Pete spits out, backing away just an inch. Patrick doesn’t notice or, maybe, he just doesn’t care. Either way, his eyes are bright and he’s leaning forward with a sudden twisted smile.

“It’d be just like last week when I asked you to be rough. I know you can be harsher than what we did and now you know that I’d be into it. Just imagine it, Pete. It’d be awesome.” Patrick can barely see Pete in front of him. He’s too busy picturing the way Pete’s hands will fit around his throat and replace the fingerprints Ian dared to lay upon him. What better way to get the faucet— always leaking with painful emotions just for Pete— to stop than to have Pete shut it off himself? His smile would become a smirk, his hand would move to Patrick’s neck, his grip would tighten just right and, Patrick imagines, everything would stop.

“I don’t know if I’d be okay with that,” Pete says cautiously, frowning. Patrick ignores it.

“Come on, just think about it, okay? Are you telling me you don’t want to try it? You already hit me last time, for God’s sake, what’d be so bad about this? Picture it,” Patrick says. “You’d have complete control over  _ everything _ . You’d be able to shut me up with one action, instead of shoving my face in a pillow or wasting time with slowing down. And I’ve heard that it looks hot, too, the way I’d be writhing beneath you, incapable of even breathing without your permission. I’d really like that, Pete. Wouldn’t you?”

Patrick’s breathless just thinking about it, just anticipating the way it’d shut his emotions off for good. When Pete had spanked him during their last time together, Patrick’s mind had gone blank for a second. How long could he lose his mind if Pete just did this?

“Patrick, please, stop talking about it,” Pete says. His eyes are shut, his voice is hoarse, and he’s just about as breathless as Patrick.

All of that has to be a good sign. It has to be proof that Patrick’s just pushing at his boundaries and one more shove will be enough to get Patrick what he wants— No, what he  _ needs _ .

“Would you prefer it if we acted like it was your idea?” Patrick asks, lowering his voice and eyelids just a bit. He’s not quite sure if he can pull off the whole ‘seduction’ thing but it’s worth a try. “Just spring it on me the second you feel like I’m getting too comfortable with our regular ways of fucking? When the hair-pulling and oversensitivity get boring? Perhaps we could even mix it up, kill all the birds with one stone and you could choke me while—”

“For fuck’s sake, Patrick!” Pete shouts, standing up suddenly with a violent look in his eyes. For a second, Patrick wonders if he’s done it-- if Pete will do it now. He swallows and wonders if wounds from Pete will feel any different than the ones he wears now. But then Pete’s scowling and backing away. “I told you to stop fucking talking about it, okay? I won’t…I can’t even _think_ about doing that. Not to you.”

Patrick’s words leave him and all the blood seems to drain from his face as Pete storms away, his stomping waking someone in the back and gaining curses that Pete shoots back just as vehemently. Patrick doesn’t care.

_ I can’t think about doing that. _

_ Not to you. _

What the hell does that mean? What does it mean other than Patrick’s not enough, not good enough for Pete to touch? How else is Patrick supposed to feel when Pete pulls away and spits out that he doesn’t want to imagine going any further with Patrick— scowling like the thought disgusts him? It’s not even like Patrick can console himself with the thought that Pete just might be disgusted by the things that Patrick’s suggesting. No, Pete’s last three words made his point more than explicit.

_ Not to you _

Patrick pulls his knees up into his chest and looks back out the window, proud of how the only thing he can feel right now is the sick twisting of his stomach. That, and the embarrassment of such a livid rejection.

But there are no tears; there’s no sadness or pain. 

Patrick stares at the window and watches his reflection, focusing on the bruises around his throat to make sure it stays that way.   

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick greets the morning with his head hanging over the arm of the couch and Pete’s hand at his shoulder, shaking him awake.

“Hey. Hey, you’re gonna have a sore neck for days if you keep sleeping like that,” Pete says, his voice a hushed and hurried whisper, alerting Patrick to the fact that the others might not yet be up. Patrick groans and slowly comes to his senses, focusing on the light of the lounge pressing cruelly against his eyelids as he struggles to open them. Pete’s hand moves away at the sound and Patrick misses the touch instantly, whining and trying to follow it. The need is cut off by the ache in his neck at the sudden movement.

“Damn,” he mutters, his eyes squinting and lips grimacing. “I think it’s a bit too late for warnings at this point.”

Patrick sits up, ignoring Pete’s silence. His eyes slam shut as he tips his head from side to side, frowning deeper at each pull of the sore muscles there. The ache of his bruises and the crick in his neck make a perfect ring, now, like a collar around his throat. It helps shove away the desire for Pete’s hand against his shoulder or his breath against his cheek. When he opens his eyes, Pete’s distance is just another aid in that area.

“I, um, I made you tea,” Pete says, shifting his weight and drawing Patrick’s attention to the thermos in his free hand. Pete frowns, chewing on his lip before shoving the tea out in front of him, some liquid coming precariously close to spilling out at the unexpected action. “Here. You sounded a bit hoarse last night and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the bruises or the…”

_ Or the conversation topic _ , Patrick’s mind helpfully supplies.

Patrick takes the thermos from Pete without saying anything, taking a sip and sighing as the warmth spreads down his throat and into his stomach.

“It’s good,” Patrick says, all too aware of Pete’s wide-eyed gaze upon him. “Thanks. I needed it.”

“Yeah,” Pete says with a cautious smile. “I assumed…”

_ “Thanks, man. I needed that.” _

_ “I assumed. You know what else you need?” _

Patrick chokes at the sudden memory, hot tea racing back up his throat in an undignified mess. Pete makes a move forward, hands outstretched uselessly, as Patrick waves him away and coughs around the thought of Pete passing him his coffee with a smile and leaving a kiss on his cheek like it would ever mean something. Patrick shuts his eyes and turns away, burying his face in his elbow to hide the reddening of his face. Though he’s sure he could pass the shade off as a result of the choking.

“Are you okay? Do you need some water? Is it the bruises?”

Against his will, he wonders how red he turned under Ian’s hands… 

“No, the bruises are fine.”

He wonders even more insistently about how he would become under Pete’s….

“Speaking of which,” a new voice exclaims, “Andy and I kinda, well, we were wondering…”

Patrick looks up just in time to see a guilty looking Joe and Andy wander into the lounge, curiosity outweighing the former emotion in their eyes.

“Guys, I told you to leave it alone. He’s fine, it was just—”

“We want Patrick to tell us that, if that’s okay with you, Pete.” Andy’s tone is decisive, his gaze fixed firmly on the singer. Patrick’s mind goes blank even as Pete starts to spit out excuses on his behalf. With steady hands, Patrick sets his thermos of tea down and clears his throat. It’s a painful idea but it does get everyone’s attention.

Patrick refuses to look up when everyone goes silent, trying to figure out what to say, when Joe speaks.

“You know we love you, man, and we would never force you to tell us something you didn’t want to. It’s just…” Joe trails off and Patrick glances up to see him share a concerned look with Andy. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. You’ve been acting really different and it’s worrying. You’re…You’ve always been kind of quiet and withdrawn but ever since you came back with those bruises, it’s gotten worse. We just want to know you’re alright.”

Patrick’s silent, swallowing around the emotion trying to make itself known. The action’s just enough force against his throat to remind him to keep the feelings down.

Andy moves in the extended silence, giving Pete a soft glare when the bassist tries to stop him, and sits next to Patrick. His hands are folded in his lap and he’s a safe distance away. Still, Patrick can’t help but worry that he’s too close, that he’ll feel the thoughts rolling away from Patrick like tumultuous waves. He’ll spend one second too close to the singer and realize how messed up he is. And then he’ll either leave or force himself closer, pulling Joe and Pete with him in some misguided attempt to fix whatever they think has been broken. Patrick can’t deal with either option.

Somehow, though, Patrick still feels his lips parting and hears shaky words coming through them.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

They’re the words that Pete’s been having him say over and over, even when the attack is the last thing on Patrick’s mind. They’re the words that Patrick wakes up to in the middle of the night, with the memory of Ian’s hands around his neck still fresh in his memory.  _ It wasn’t my fault it wasn’t my fault it wasn’t me _

They’re the words that Patrick’s never quite been able to believe.

_ It wasn’t my fault it wasn’t me it wasn’t my fault it couldn’t have been my fault I would never—  _

“It’s alright,” Andy says, his voice as soft as ever. “We believe you.”

Patrick hadn’t realized he’d been speaking out loud.

He takes another heavy breath and shuts his eyes, imagining the air grounding him in place and holding him still. He imagines it spreading throughout his body, blowing him up until he’s more than the shell his friends have been forced to deal with.

“You don’t have to tell them,” Pete says. His voice is stern; his eyes are hard.

Patrick lets the breath out.

“There was this guy at our last show,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He pretends he can blame it on the injuries around his neck. “There’s not much to say other than the fact that I got on his bad side, I guess. I told him something he didn’t want to hear and, well, I guess you can piece together the rest. It wasn’t anything, really. Just a stupid moron looking for a fight.”

It’d be too embarrassing, too humiliating, to say what had actually occurred. Patrick can’t imagine ever saying it out loud, can’t bring himself to even think of what the words would be if ever did dare to voice them. Thoughts of the shocked faces of his friends— and Pete’s strange defensiveness when it comes to this particular incident— cross his mind. He doesn’t think he can handle the pity or sympathy or strange glances his way whenever someone randomly recalls it. It’s not like anything actually happened, anyway! He doesn’t need to be coddled!

“What a fucking  _ dick _ ,” Joe spits out, crushing the part of Patrick’s mind that had expected everyone to just move on with a joke or, at least, some understanding as to why Patrick would want to be left alone. “Tell me you got a good hit in. Or a name. That’d be even better because then—”

“I took care of it,” Pete interjects, arms still folded tightly across his chest. “The asshole left with a broken nose and, hopefully, a minor concussion.”

Patrick remembers the sound of the scuffle as he had gasped for breath on the cold pavement beneath him. There’s no way that, from the amount of shouting and cursing going on, Ian left with any  _ minor  _ injuries. Pete would have chased after Ian himself until the guy was begging for mercy if that were the case.

Pete and Joe banter in the background as Patrick thinks, the two going back and forth between who hits harder and who would’ve protected Patrick better. There’s still an edge in Pete’s voice, Patrick notices, but he ignores it. The same way that, from the tea on the floor and the refusal to meet Patrick’s gaze, Pete’s been ignoring the conversation from last night.

“I’m glad that Pete was there to help you,” Andy says, drawing Patrick’s attention away from the conversation. “But, and I’m sorry if this is crossing a line, that doesn’t explain why you’ve been so distant. You’ve been in fights before, Patrick, and it’s never affected you this badly.”

Patrick shakes his head, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he thinks. His hat had fallen off sometime in his sleep and, though it’s not a necessity while on the bus, he wishes he had an excuse to reach and grab it from the floor because Andy’s gaze is never something he wants to be directly under.

“Yeah, but this wasn’t a fight,” Patrick says, staring at the ground. “It was…It was more of an attack and. Look, I don’t know! I didn’t expect for him to start…to try to…I don’t know! You said you believed me that it wasn’t my fault, why are you trying to make it into some big deal? I’m fine, alright? I was just embarrassed that some asshat got his hands that close to me.”

“Patrick, calm down,” Andy says, voice rising over the sound of Pete and Joe snapping at each other in the background. Somehow, their playful conversation had escalated to an argument but Patrick can’t bring himself to care about what’s being said. “I do believe you. We all do. But we care, too. Like Joe said, you don’t have to talk about it. But we’re all here for you if you decide to.”

Patrick wonders if this is the part where he says ‘thank you’ or ‘ok’ or shrugs it off or goes for a hug. But all he can bring himself to do is nod.

“ —ck off, you don’t understand anything! You weren’t even there to help so don’t tell me that you would have done any better!” Pete’s voice filters back into focus and Patrick looks up, jaw dropping slightly at the complete anger and frustration on Pete’s face. Joe’s expression returns the emotions, though on a slightly lesser scale.

“It was a joke, dude, calm down,” Joe says, hands held up and clearly trying to relieve whatever tension had been created. Pete’s eyes flash to Patrick’s and they meet for a second— long enough for Patrick to see the thousands of defenses and offenses Pete wants to shout out— before Pete turns with a disgruntled sound.

“Whatever,” he says. “I’ll be in the back.”

No one has a chance to stop him and, from the tone of his voice, it’s a good thing no one tried to.

Joe casts a lost look Patrick’s way, an eyebrow raised as he walks closer.

“What’s his fucking deal? All I did was joke about how beating up one jerk didn’t make up for years of messing with you.” Joe sighs, frustration clearly growing. “It was just a fucking joke and he goes off like…I don’t wanna call him a dick but he’s being a pretty big dick right now.”

Patrick frowns at Joe’s explanation of what happened. He’d been expecting shots at Pete’s ability to throw a punch or references to bad experiences Pete had had while fighting in the pits of the hardcore shows he used to see. What Joe had said sounds tame.

Patrick stands, reaching down to grab his hat and shove it on his head in the process.

“He’s probably just tired,” Patrick lies. He knows that something bigger is going on and his mind can’t help but return to their conversation from the night before. Patrick’s already admitted to having problems accepting that something can’t be his fault and this situation is no exception. “I’ll go talk with him.”

He can still feel Andy’s eyes on his back as he leaves, though, and he doesn’t escape without a clap on the shoulder from Joe as he passes.

“Sorry for putting you on the spot and then, I guess, picking a fight with the one guy who  _ was  _ there to get you out of the attack,” he says with a tired tone. “But Pete’s not the only one who’ll fight for you, okay? If he decides to start acting like a dick to you, too, my door— er, well, my bunk curtains are always open. But only for you.”

There’s a smile in Joe’s voice as he reaches the end but Patrick can’t bring himself to return it.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice as monotonous as he can make it. “I’ll remember that.”

He hurries to the back before anyone else can try to stop him with sympathetic words or heartfelt glances. He doesn’t need their pity and he sure as hell doesn’t want their protection. Behind him, Andy calls out that he forgot his tea. Patrick ignores it and slams the door open to the room in the back.

And suddenly it’s so hard to breathe.

_ Pete’s breath against his neck and his hand around Patrick’s fingers, forcing him to play guitar and sing so that the lonely feeling in his mind would stop _

_ Pete’s hands against Patrick’s bare skin, leaving marks and bringing pain _

_ Pete’s voice— soft and gentle and nothing more than a whisper— singing along and asking if Patrick’s okay, if he needs to sleep _

_ Pete’s words— unrelenting and cruel but oh so true— declaring Patrick nothing more than desperate, letting loose demands and giving Patrick everything he asked for _

The memories are so vivid and so different that Patrick has to physically step back and brace himself against the door as he shuts it behind him, forcing himself to breathe even as a traitorous part of his mind— the part that spoke with Pete last night— asks him not to.

“Patrick?” Pete mutters, looking up from his spot on the bed, a pen clasped tightly in one hand and a torn notebook in the other. “What are you doing in here?”

“You stormed off,” Patrick says, Pete’s voice somehow helping him to forget the images that had been racing through his head. “I said I’d come check on you.”

Pete sighs and tosses his writing to the side of the bed, his lips twisting in an adorable pout. “I don’t need any checking up on.”

“Sure you don’t.” It’s an easy script, one that Patrick’s been through before. He doesn’t have to worry about implications or innuendos when he sits down next to Pete, lying back to look up at the older man. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Pete says, falling back to lie next to Patrick. He shuts his eyes and takes a breath. “Just tired, I guess.”

Patrick hums in thought and watches Pete breathe, contemplating the validity of that statement.

How many times has Patrick claimed to be tired whenever Pete gets too close and Patrick’s feelings get too loud? How many times in the past two days has Patrick acted like he was tired just so Pete wouldn’t have a reason to hang around and seep the dullness away from his body? He hasn’t been keeping count; he doesn’t want to know how much he’s let Pete down.

Not like it matters, of course. Pete may be an awful liar but Patrick can get away with almost any excuse he wants.

“That’s total BS, Pete,” Patrick says, the toneless sound of his voice stealing any real heat from the words. Pete just shrugs, turning over on his side to face the singer.

“No, really, I— I haven’t been able to sleep well recently. Too much on my mind, you know how I am.” He pauses with a frown, looking away from Patrick’s eyes and more towards his neck. Slowly, cautious enough that Patrick has time to stop it, he reaches out. Patrick holds his breath in the forever that it takes for Pete’s fingers, calloused and familiar, to brush over the bruises he knows are there. “Do they hurt?”

Patrick waits, his breath still trapped in his lungs, and searches for an answer in his mind. The bruises have a bad habit of aching whenever he remembers them but they’re the best dose of novocaine when it comes to feeling pain over anything else. He knows that Pete’s looking for an honest response but, really, Patrick can’t bring himself to let Pete have even the smallest glimpse into what these bruises do to him.

He lets out his breath in a controlled stream of air, wasting time until he has no more excuses to hide behind. “They’re better than you’d expect.”

Pete nods, satisfied with the answer, and draws patterns against Patrick’s skin, abstract enough that Patrick can’t help but wonder if they mean anything. Pete’s touch is soft and gentle; Patrick does his best to ignore the fluttering in his stomach at the thought of this becoming another conflicting memory.

“Tell me if I’m being too rough,” Pete says and the words almost sound pained. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

_ It’s alright if you do  _ is on the tip of Patrick’s tongue when the door opens, causing the two to fly apart from each other like teenagers caught kissing behind the school. 

“Hey, I didn’t hear any yelling so I assumed it was safe to come back here,” Joe says, poking his head in. Patrick sits up and focuses his attention on the guitarist, ignoring the disgruntled sound from Pete as he moves to put some distance between them. 

“What the hell do you want?” Pete asks. Joe glares at him but evidently decides that the argument isn’t worth it as he turns a softer gaze Patrick’s way.

“The next few shows are spread out pretty nicely so we have an excuse to stay somewhere in the next town. Andy’s up there talking with the people in charge about booking. We’re only getting two rooms, though,” he explains. “You guys alright to share or…”

He shoots a hesitant gaze Pete’s way and then back at Patrick, wordlessly asking if Pete’s attitude is gonna be a problem. Patrick feels a smile find its way onto his face as he looks over towards the bassist.

“We should be fine to share, right?” He asks, his eyes never once leaving Pete.

Pete’s eyes still haven’t left the bruises around Patrick’s neck.

“Pete?” Joe asks hesitantly. “You good with that?”

A second passes, just long enough for Patrick to wonder if he’d assumed too much. Just long enough for Patrick to wish that Pete had agreed to choke him last night because there’s no doubt in his mind that he wouldn’t be feeling so worried had he been wearing Pete’s fingerprints on his neck.

“Pete,” Joe tries again. “I asked if—”

“Sure.” Pete’s voice is clipped and sudden as he stands, shoving past Joe and storming into his bunk. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

Patrick ignores the fact that his hands are beginning to shake.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Silence. 

The bus stopped a while ago at some hotel. The others filed out. Patrick stepped into the small bus bathroom with a smile and said he’d be out soon.

The door to the bus slammed shut. 

And everything was thrown into silence.

Patrick’s always hated silence but the reflection he stares at in the mirror refuses to let him break it with any sort of sound. His eyes— empty and lost— tell him not to speak lest the brittle shield that’s been built up over desperate pupils and longing irises shatter. His lips— bitten into bloody lines that pull tight across his face— remind him that he’s promised himself not to cry.

The bruises around his neck— somehow so much more vivid than before— command him not to breathe.

_ Just shut up, okay?  _ They whisper, their voice not unlike that of the one that put them there.  _ It’ll be over soon…. _

Patrick’s hands slam against the sink and his mouth opens in a soundless scream and— as he stares at those bruises and he feels the memory of Pete’s rejection prodding at his dead emotions— it’s like he’s trapped beneath Ian all over again

_ Ian’s hands shoving him against the wall. Ian’s breath against his skin and his words in his ears. _

_ “You’re gonna feel so good. I can’t wait.” _

_ Screaming for Pete. Thrashing and kicking and trying to break free when Patrick knows damn well there’s no way out. _

_ Screaming. _

_ Fighting _

_ Crying _

_ Trying to breathe when suddenly— _

Patrick blinks as he’s back in the bathroom, staring into the mirror with tear tracks going down his face, mocking him as he rubs them away furiously. He’s not going to cry. He’s not going to  _ cry _ . It’s over. What happened with Ian is  _ over _ . Pete scared him away, got a few punches in, and promised Patrick nothing like that was ever going to happen again.

And Patrick’s been fine! He’s been fine ever since The Incident and, even if he hadn’t been, he’s, at least, been getting better! So, why is he here fighting back tears in front of a mirror? Why does the sight of these bruises send his stomach into painful knots and cut off his breath like a noose?

_ “Goddamnit, Patrick! What the fuck is wrong with you?” _

More than the pain of Ian choking him and humiliation of what might have occurred, Patrick knows that— pathetically— he was most affected by being caught. 

Because, of course, that has to be why Pete’s so clearly upset with him, right? Patrick knows how Pete sees him— or, he supposes, how Pete  _ used  _ to see him. He knows all the stupid jokes about his innocence and purity that Pete likes to make despite the fact that he was the one to steal both of those away. He knows that Pete likes to see him as the endearing younger friend that he occasionally gets to fuck when both of them get bored.

And Patrick had to go screw all of that up.

_ “What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought you would be the last person to do something so stupid!” _

Patrick covers his mouth with a hand, incapable of watching the way his bottom lip is beginning to quiver but finding it just as impossible to look away.

_ “There was no way something like that could happen to my Trick…” _

Patrick shuts his eyes but Pete’s words keep coming, each memory louder than before. Each thought more painful than the last. 

_ “Don’t let me lose you, Trick.” _

Don’t change from what Pete’s used to. Don’t show him how messed up you are on the inside. Don’t break from what’s expected because then this is what you get.

You get the fine line between numb and broken hearted. You get lost in the what-ifs. 

Patrick recites these in his head like a prayer, feeling ragged breaths travel in and out of his throat but not believing that a bit of it is reaching his lungs. It feels too much like choking or drowning. It feels like….

It feels like….

_ “I can’t even think about doing that. Not to you.” _

It feels like being left behind.  

“Patrick! Are you still in there? Is everything okay?”

Pete’s banging on the door, his voice just a second away from scared. 

Patrick can’t bring himself to respond.

Maybe this is why Pete’s been filling his time with people like Jessica, people who deserve the lyrics he promises them and don’t take his presence for granted. Patrick was being cocky and selfish when he followed Ian into that alley. He had to know what the other man wanted.

He had to know that he would only ever be thinking of Pete if it got that far.

“Patrick! If you don’t answer, I’ll have no other choice than to come in.”

_ “Hundreds of lyrics just for you.” _

Patrick’s hands move to squeeze at the sides of his head in a useless attempt to block out the words trying to remind him that he’s become too comfortable at Pete’s side. Everyone’s replaceable. If Pete decides that Patrick tainted himself by letting Ian touch him….If Pete decides that Patrick plays it too safe or that he just doesn’t want him anymore….he might…..

He might….

_ “It doesn’t mean anything….” _

He might decide that it’s come to mean too much.

_ “It’d be too chaotic” _

Well, Patrick’s thoughts and feelings have been chaotic for a long time, just not in the way he needs. 

“Patrick? Are you okay? Just open the door, please, or else--”

The door opens and it's Patrick's hand on the handle.

“Patrick?”

There’s no time for the two to contemplate the other’s appearance, no chance for confusion or words, before Patrick’s dragging Pete against him, slamming himself against the wall and forcing Pete close. His hands find their way to Pete’s shirt, bunching up the material in his fists and refusing to let Pete leave. He tugs the older boy close, his eyes wide and breathing short.

He needs this. 

He needs this.

“Patrick?” Pete’s voice is cautious but he doesn’t make any move to leave. Patrick takes it as a good sign.

“I can’t stop thinking of Ian,” Patrick breathes out, what feels like the last of his oxygen escaping him. “I can’t stop looking at the bruises and seeing Ian’s hands there. I can’t stop hearing him or feeling him and it’s horrible. It’s terrifying and,  _ god,  _ Pete. I can’t have the bruises be from him anymore. I can’t.”

Pete swallows and Patrick watches the action, preparing himself for another rejection. Pete shuts his eyes and counts to three, soft whispers Patrick’s not sure he’s supposed to hear. When he opens his eyes, his voice is steady.

“What, exactly, are you asking?” He questions. Patrick licks his lips, unable to find the answer that Pete wants.

“Please.”

And Patrick knows that Pete knows what he’s asking. He knows by the way that Pete’s hands are beginning to shake, from the way that his muscles are tense beneath Patrick’s hands, from the way his lips are turned down in a determined frown.

From the way his eyes keep darting to the bruises around Patrick’s neck.

“I told you I don’t want to do that,” Pete says but there’s a hitch in his words, a break in the rhythm by the inconsistency of his breaths.

Patrick lets out a noise that sounds too much like a sob.

“ _ Please, _ Pete,” he says, he begs. He’s desperate again and those emotions are coming back. He’s so far from numb and it hurts and he needs it gone, he needs it he needs it he needs it. “Help me forget about them.”

“Them?” Pete asks, his voice as soft as his eyes. “The bruises?”

Patrick shakes his head and Pete raises an eyebrow. But Patrick could never tell him about the words running through his head, could never open his mouth and admit that it’s Pete’s voice haunting him with reminders that he can’t be loved by the one he needs most.

He may need Pete’s love but he needs this more. He needs it so he can forget about every other longing he’s ever had.

His head falls over to rest on Pete’s shoulder; one hand slips down to hover dangerously close to the front of Pete's pants.

“Please,” he whimpers. “I need it.”

Seconds pass. Silence fills the bus. Patrick doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe.

Slowly, so slowly, Pete raises a hand and rests it against Patrick’s neck.

And Patrick suddenly feels as if he can breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was, indeed, a long one. 
> 
> I think I like how the individual scenes came out but I'm not so certain about how they were pieced together. Like, I hope the transition from numb to not so numb made sense and didn't seem forced or rushed or anything. Whatever. I don't like it when writers complain about their writing so I'm not gonna do that too much here.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I really hope you liked it!! As always, this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. PLEASE (I'm begging you) leave a comment and let me know what you think! It definitely motivates me to get my chapters done quicker, haha 
> 
> As always, have a nice day and thank you for spending some of it here :)


	8. I'm [not] Taking This Too Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The World May Be Cruel But No One Is Meaner To Patrick Than Patrick (And Maybe Me) by Fall Out Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I laughed pretty hard while writing the summary so I suppose that counts for something.
> 
> Hey! I'm back to share some angst and a bit more of this story. This chapter is quite a bit shorter than the rest but, rest assured, we're on the path to some of the more intense moments of the story. Anyway, sit back, relax, and enjoy!!

**I’m [not] Taking This Too Far**

 

_ “I need you to promise that you’re sure about this. I need you to promise this won’t hurt you.” _

_ Pete’s voice is hesitant and cautious. His eyes flicker with fear but his hands, scraping across Patrick’s body in a fevered rush, hold nothing but want. _

_ “Pete, please.”  _

_ Patrick’s begging. He usually never begs so much.  _

_ But, then again, this isn’t a usual situation. _

_ “Promise me.” _

_ Pete’s hands rest on Patrick’s shoulders as he pushes the other down onto his back. The dirtied bus floor scrapes across his skin as he grinds up into Pete, his shirt long lost in the frenzy of Patrick’s desperation. _

_ “I need you to promise you’ll be okay.” _

_ Too many words and not enough time. Patrick can’t focus on anything but Pete’s hands as they roam everywhere but the place Patrick needs them to be. _

_ “Pete, please, please, I’ll be alright.” _

_ The light in the bus is too sharp, even with Patrick’s eyes shut so tightly it hurts. He doesn’t want to see Pete do this, he doesn’t want to see Pete choose not to do this, he wants everything and nothing all at once. _

_ “Please, Pete, please. I need you, I need you, I need it, please." He’s practically sobbing. _

_ Pete still won't move. _

_ “Promise me.” _

_ There’s a moment where Patrick can turn his back. He can say he’s changed his mind. _

_ He opens his eyes.  _

_ He takes a breath. _

_ “Promise me, Trick.” _

_ And he lifts Pete’s hands to his throat. _

_ “I promise.” _

_ Heavy breathing. Violent gasps. Panting and begging and moaning as they fit together in every way that Patrick knows they shouldn’t.  _

_ Heavy breathing. Pete swearing not to hurt him. Patrick ignoring every word as Pete slides inside, Pete’s hands shaking against his skin. _

_ Heavy breathing. Terrified gasps. Shut eyes and whispered names and promises Patrick knows he’ll break. _

_ Heavy breathing. _

_ Patrick sighs and meets Pete’s eyes; he lifts his chin to grant better access to his neck. _

_ Pete takes a breath and tightens his grip. _

_ And suddenly there’s no breathing at all. _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Light is still streaming in through the bus windows when Patrick opens his eyes. Pete’s hand still rests across his neck when he takes a deep breath, painfully ragged and cautious as if surfacing from underwater. It hasn’t been long, he notices, since they fell asleep, tangled together as Pete murmured about cleaning up before Joe and Andy came looking. It hasn’t been long, he thinks, since Pete had rested his head against Patrick’s shoulder, asking again and again if he did alright— as if that part mattered more than anything that came before it. It hasn’t been long, he tells himself, since Pete gave him everything he asked for with just the smallest touch of persuasion.

It hasn’t been long at all.

Patrick doesn’t move from where he lies strewn across the floor, shirtless with his pants and boxers yanked down to his ankles. His hoodie’s still curled up beneath his hips, a makeshift pillow when they had both been too into the moment to grab something better. A terrifying moment of his arms trapped behind his back as Pete had worked it off plays behind his eyes when he blinks. It had been over soon but Patrick can’t forget the way it had made his heart pound to be so helpless for that second. Pete’s body had pressed on top of his, keeping him down, and only Patrick’s small whine had alerted him to the predicament.

Concern. Worry. Understanding.

The issue was solved within a moment.

Patrick doesn’t dare move as Pete shifts in his sleep, fingers brushing across Patrick’s skin in delicate movements. It’s too easy to lose himself in the aftermath, to pretend that nothing other than gentleness and care had led to this moment. Maybe the aches in his lower back are from Pete’s grabby hands, chasing after every inch of Patrick’s skin the way Patrick chases after Pete’s attention. Perhaps his empty thoughts are only because everything’s in place and there are no more thoughts to burden him. If he takes slow breaths and focuses on the feeling of Pete’s proximity, he can trick himself into believing the biting pain around his neck are from Pete’s lips instead of his hands.

It’s dangerous to pretend, Patrick knows. It’s useless to build up false hopes once more when every other chance at hope has left him even more damaged than before. Patrick’s learned fast. Hope is nothing more than a forced illusion, blinding the believer into a false sense of confidence until it finally leaves, tearing a gaping hole through his chest as it goes. Patrick’s learned to fill that hope with more realistic things. Things like Pete’s fingers pressing bruises into his skin and the sight of his lips turning away at the last second.

Things Patrick has become all too familiar with.

Still, he doesn’t dare shut his eyes, the scenes from what they’d done playing in his mind with vivid detail each time he blinks.

_ The heat of Pete’s body as he moved against Patrick, his thrusts and eyes fierce; one hand wrapped around Patrick’s throat as he held himself up, the gags leaving Patrick’s lips causing them both to wince _

Patrick shakes his head; he tries not to see, to remember, to feel….

_ Spit trailing down the side of Patrick’s mouth as Pete lifted some of the constant pressure and Patrick’s voice sounding wet and strained as he begged for “more, don’t stop, please, god, Pete, please” _

His hands shake as he thinks of how Pete had gazed down at the writhing man beneath him; his heart pounds at how soft Pete’s voice had been.

No. Stop. Don’t remember, he doesn’t want to remember, not now—

_ Patrick’s back arching off the ground as he came messily between them, Pete’s hands finally leaving so he can hear Patrick cry out wordlessly. Sucking in greedy breaths and clutching at his throat, gasping too violently for it to be healthy _

_ And his thoughts on repeat that this is what he had wanted, this is what he had asked for, he just has to wait and it will work, it will have been worth it, it will be exactly like the last time, it has to be it, it has to— _

Patrick’s hands fly to his neck in an imitation of his memory. It’s still sensitive, another reminder of how little time has passed, and he flinches away from his own touch as he tries to trace out where the new bruises are. His face warms at the thought that they’ll be in the shape of Pete’s hands, that his fingertips and the lines of his palms are pressed into Patrick’s skin like a twisted version of the tattoos across Pete’s body. Patrick takes another shuddering breath and places pressure on a particularly sore spot, hissing at the pain he encounters. It’s good, he thinks as he takes deep breaths through his nose. It’s enough.

Pete yawns and Patrick looks over to watch him push himself up into a sitting position. His hair’s a mess and he has nothing on but he doesn’t seem to care, his eyes focusing on Patrick’s hand in less than a second.

“Hey,” he says, the word sounding stuck in his throat. He won’t meet Patrick’s eyes, won’t look at him for longer than the time it takes to exhale. “You’re okay?”

Patrick presses in once more before dropping his hand from his neck. “I’m alright.”

“You always are.” Pete’s voice is almost bitter and the curl of his lips could almost be seen as sarcastic. Somehow, Patrick forces himself not to care. 

Silence, long and uncomfortable, stretches out between them without invitation. Pete reaches for his clothes with a huff; Patrick finds himself unwilling to move.

“It was good,” Patrick says, at last, raising an eyebrow when Pete tenses. “I…I liked it.”

“I’m glad.” Pete’s response is short and tight, the monotonous sound sending shivers down Patrick's spine. He turns to put his shirt on, Patrick’s eyes on him the entire time. “You should cover the bruises.”

“There are bruises?” Patrick doesn’t mean to sound so excited but Pete doesn’t seem to notice, his lips turning in a scowl as he stands.

“Of course there are.” It’s not as harsh as his previous words had been, softer and less impatient. “I don’t….I can't imagine you want fans seeing them. They might get the wrong idea. You know how they are with rumors and speculations.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, sitting up and watching Pete with a frown. “Hey, is something—”

“Everything’s fine,” Pete snaps, finally dressed and combing his fingers through his hair. “I just….You fucking  _ owe  _ me, man. It might have been good for you but it fucking sucked for me, okay? I don’t like doing that kinda shit, it’s weird.”

“Oh.” Patrick manages not to feel like he’s been hit, even if a distant part of his mind recognizes the stern tone of Pete’s voice. He smiles instead, looking down at the ugly bus carpeting. “Thanks, anyway. It…It helped.”

“ _ Helped _ ?” Pete barely manages to hold back his scoff yet it still makes itself known loud and clear in Patrick’s mind. He shakes his head with a sigh. “I….I don’t even know what to say about that. You realize how fucked up that sounds, right? You know what, don't answer that, sorry, I just….I’ll meet you inside, alright? The key for our room’s on the couch, I think. But I have the extra so don’t worry if you can’t find it. I’ll….I’ll talk to you later.”

Pete’s gone before Patrick can care about the incredulous look on his face; the door’s shut before Patrick can realize he’s leaving.

It’s fine, though, he thinks as his hand reaches up to stroke the bruised skin of his neck once more.

It’s good, he thinks, as he shuts his eyes and welcomes the physical pain overshadowing the emotional. 

It’s good.

It's fine.

It’s enough.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The rest of the night goes better than Patrick would have expected. He doesn’t run into Andy or Joe on the way in— though he does text them for a while as Pete takes longer than usual in the shower— and Pete’s asleep by the time Patrick’s done screwing around on GarageBand, successfully avoiding any awkward conversations.

The next day is more of the same. He hides out in the room during breakfast, claiming exhaustion and sleeping more than half the day away. Joe visits with stale toast and a smile, though, pointedly looking away from Patrick’s neck while they talk. Such forced obliviousness would usually get on Patrick’s nerves but he’d seen the bruises last night, had stared at the array of violet and blue on his skin. He doesn’t want to know what Joe would ask if he took the time to stare for longer than a fraction of a second.

Everything goes well.

Everything is fine.

Until they get to soundcheck.

Because everything’s fine on the drive to the venue; everything’s perfect while they’re setting up. Patrick had indulged in plenty of the hotel’s complimentary tea and even got one of the girls helping out backstage to let him borrow some foundation for the bruises. She’d given him an odd look, edging more on concerned than anything else, but had still helped cover them until they looked the way they had when they had just belonged to Ian. When they had been fading. When they had been on their way to nothing more than a memory.

And then Patrick had stood in front of a microphone. And he had tried to sing.

“ _ Hope this is the last time! Cause I’ll never say—  _ Fucking shit! Why can’t I hit that note?” He cuts off the song for the third time, clearing his throbbing throat and stepping away from the mic with a scowl. His hands tighten around the neck of his guitar and he kicks the ground uselessly. The others slowly stop the song, realizing that their singer has ceased yet again.

“It sounds fine,” Joe says, playing a random chord. “It’s just a little lower than usual. The kids won’t even notice.”

“But  _ I  _ will,” Patrick says, all too aware of how whiny he sounds. Sure, the bruises around his neck help him ignore Pete’s worried glances and tendencies to kiss his cheek but heaven forbid anything prevent Patrick Stump from getting a tad too passionate about music. “If one note’s off, the whole damn song will be off. And that’s not even mentioning how much my voice was cracking during Sugar. You really want to tell me they won’t mention that?”

Joe winces. “Well. Ok, they might. They definitely might. At least they’ll know you’re not faking?”

“Whatever,” Patrick says, turning back to the mic. He makes it a point not to look in Pete’s direction, even if he can hear the bassist sighing and waiting for a chance to make a suggestion. “Let’s just run through the last two again.”

Finally, Pete groans. Somehow, Patrick’s surprised he hadn’t done so sooner.

“We’ve run through each song, like, eight times, Patrick,” he says. Patrick still doesn’t look over, still keeps his gaze fixed on the strings of his guitar and how they press into the pads of his fingers. “You need to, I don’t know, take a break? Or your voice really will give out during the show.”

“Just one more time.” Patrick’s words are slow and he takes the time to breathe between each of them, takes the time to make sure they don’t sound too emotional. “I want to get it right.”

“You will, I promise.” Pete’s tone is too earnest for Patrick to ignore and he hates the way he looks up to see the bassist’s reassuring smile. “Just rest your voice for a bit, man. It sounds….It sounds like it might hurt if you keep pushing it.”

And there’s a waver in Pete’s smile, a small twitch in the corner of his signature grin. Behind him, Patrick can hear Joe agreeing, already setting down his guitar and asking Andy if he knows where the bathrooms are. Pete sets his bass down and nods in the direction of their dressing room— a room that’s nothing more than an oversized storage closet with a dusty couch and smudged up mirror. He leaves before Patrick can finish raising an eyebrow.

And Patrick finds himself with no other choice but to follow, passing his guitar to a techie and taking too long on the short walk after Pete. He has a feeling that he knows what the other man wants to talk about and, really, it’s not a conversation worth having.

He shuts the door to the dressing room after stepping inside, sighing in time with the gentle click of the latch. He can still feel Pete watching him closely, a bad habit the bassist’s seemed to pick up in the past few days. Patrick doesn’t let it bother him, merely turning around with his arms folded across his chest.

“I’m fine,” he says. Pete’s smile falls.

“Yeah, you’re really not.” He lets out a breath and steps closer, running a hand down his face. “Look. Something’s been up with you for a while and I don’t know if it has to do with Ian or what we did yesterday but I just want to help, alright?”

Trying his best not to seem too sarcastic, Patrick rolls his eyes and bites back another sigh. “I said I’m fine. That implies that I don’t need any help.”

“I’ve used that line before, Patrick, so I know that it’s not true.”

“Well, maybe not for you but it’s true when I say it.”

“Patrick…”

“Can you just drop it?” Patrick’s grip has grown tight where he’s holding onto his arms and he stares at the ground with a relentless glare. “We had our heart-to-heart a few nights ago, yeah? Everything’s fine so let’s just, I don’t know, change the subject? Before I actually do get upset and go rant to Joe. Because you know Joe will kick your ass if I tell him you upset me.”

It’s a joke and it does its job, relieving tension and causing Pete to sigh, a sign of defeat.

“At least admit that you’ve been frustrated recently.” He looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes and covering his face with his hands. “At least tell me that much. Because I might be crazy? But I’m definitely not crazy enough to imagine the weird moods you’ve been in.”

Blood rushes to Patrick's face just as fast the shame and guilt rushing through his veins. The last thing he’d wanted to do was make Pete worry or cause him to feel any sense of unease. It’s not often that Patrick’s the source of Pete’s concern or worries and the thought of making the bassist second guess himself so easily is enough to cause Patrick to drop his arms and shake his head.

“You’re not crazy,” he says weakly, throat still a tad sore. “You’re right, I’ve been frustrated. But it’s all tour stuff, okay? Just stage fright and shit. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Pete looks up and starts to walk towards Patrick with wary steps as if he’s afraid of scaring him away. There’s enough time for Patrick to walk away because, amidst the relief and disbelief in Pete’s eyes, he can recognize the other emotions on the other man’s face.

Even if he’s cut off his own access to such emotions, Patrick still finds himself rooted to the spot.

One tanned hand wraps around Patrick’s wrist to lightly stroke the pulse there while the other lands on his hip, pulling the singer close.

“Can I help?” Pete asks in a whisper, dropping his head to breathe against Patrick’s neck. Usually, his lips would already be on the skin, leaving marks that only they’d know to look for. This time, though, he’s inches away and Patrick aches for him to be closer. His heart hammers in his chest as Pete blows out another warm breath. “We have time. I can help take your mind off of all the things frustrating you.”

Patrick can’t help the hysteric laugh that bubbles up in his chest and escapes through his lips. “My throat’s still a bit too jacked up from last time, don’t you think?”

Despite his words, Patrick can already feel his body giving in, melting against Pete’s touch and pressing closer to his body. He gasps gently when Pete’s hand moves lower, rubbing at Patrick’s crotch through his tight jeans.

“We don’t have to be so rough,” Pete whispers. Patrick takes a shuddery breath, hands lifting to grip Pete’s shoulders. Pete leads him over to the couch, coughing and laughing at the dust that flies off of it from their impact. Patrick whines when Pete pulls away, the older man grinning down at the younger as Patrick thrusts helplessly into the air, searching for friction. His pants are suddenly too tight and the room’s way too hot. Patrick shuts his eyes and moans at the feeling of Pete watching him, always watching him.

“Maybe…Maybe I like it rough,” he tries. Pete’s hand is on his crotch again in an instant, rubbing slow circles over the sensitive area.

“And maybe I don’t.”

His voice is gentle and his hands are even more so as they unbuckle Patrick’s pants, lowering the zipper and lifting the younger boy’s hips to slide the jeans down his legs. Patrick opens his eyes in time to see Pete smiling softly at him, biting his lip before lowering his head.

Patrick hates the flip his stomach takes.

Pete slides off the couch and onto his knees between Patrick’s legs, using warm hands to spread the singer’s thighs before him. He’s slow as he pulls down Patrick’s boxers, allowing his already leaking cock to spring up against his stomach in an uncomfortable display of his arousal.

_ This isn’t going to be the same as last time, it’s not going to work in the way I need it to, Pete’s going to be gentle and he’s going to be kind and I can’t have that, I don’t need that, I don’t— _

A calloused hand wraps around Patrick’s cock and he jerks forward, a harsh gasp tearing through his already abused throat. 

“Don’t move,” Pete says in a low voice, his eyes dark. “I want to take care of this. I’m doing this for you.”

Patrick’s cock twitches at the sound of Pete’s voice and the smirk on his lips as he slowly starts to jerk him off. Pete’s free hand rests on Patrick’s hip, keeping him still and in place. Patrick’s just barely able to hold onto his thoughts, onto the fact that this is everything he swore he didn’t need.

Still, it’s hard to think with Pete’s hand moving at an agonizingly slow pace, drawing out the sweetest whines from Patrick’s throat, wanton and lustful. Patrick’s hand grips onto the edge of the couch, clinging so hard his knuckles turn white, as he tosses his head back and tries to stay quiet. 

As if he’s read his mind, Pete’s hand speeds up just enough to draw out a moan and Patrick doesn’t have to look to see his smirk. “Be quiet, alright? I don’t think you locked the door and it’d be a bit embarrassing to have someone walk in to check on us.”

_ Fuck _

Pete lifts his hand from Patrick’s hips, locking eyes with the singer before dragging his tongue over his palm with a wet sound. He circles his fingers with his lips, wetting them one by one and moaning around the digits in his mouth. His eyes still on Patrick’s, he spreads the singer’s legs further and reaches down beneath his balls, teasing his hole with a small laugh.

“Pete, please,” Patrick whines, still trying to keep from bucking. “Please, please, I need you, please.”

_ I need you to be rougher, to be quicker. I need your hands around my throat and your cock up my ass. I need something I’ll still feel onstage. I need something much more than this. _

Patrick shifts back as Pete’s finger starts pressing into his hole, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go and crying out. He focuses on the shame of how he must look, half naked while Pete’s still fully clothed, still fully aware of just how flushed Patrick is with his legs spread and his ass on display.

The tip of Pete’s finger slides into his hole and Patrick bites back a loud moan. The digit slides in and out experimentally and Patrick’s just barely keeping from screaming when a sudden heat surrounds his cock and his voice escapes him in an immediate shout. He looks down to see Pete’s mouth enveloping him, one hand on Patrick’s thigh and the other hidden from view. His hair falls into his face and keeps Patrick from meeting his eyes but he wouldn’t be surprised to see mischief in them as Pete begins to bob his head with an expertise Patrick didn’t know he had.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Patrick breathes, biting his lip with a whine. The entire length of his cock disappears between Pete’s lips, slick and wet from saliva dripping down his chin. He sucks in time with the thrusting of his finger, a second one sliding into Patrick’s hole as Pete presses his tongue flat against the bottom of Patrick’s cock. His fingers twitch around, causing Patrick to jump and moan, gaining speed and searching for his prostate.

Patrick whines again, his teeth clamping tighter around his lip as Pete begins to suck, the hand on his thigh squeezing the flesh there and no doubt leaving marks. His breaths are ragged and harsh and, for a moment, Patrick gets caught up in the fact that he can breathe. As overwhelmed as he is, this is still nothing compared to what he’s asked for and—

Pete’s fingers brush his prostate and Patrick’s teeth break skin. Blood rushes into Patrick’s mouth, staining his tongue, and his lip stings in every way he needs.

Pete doesn’t notice, his fingers now pounding into Patrick’s prostate as the rhythm of his bobbing head becomes more reckless. He stops suddenly, his nose buried in the coarse hair at the base of Patrick’s cock, and starts to swallow. His fingers continue to massage Patrick’s prostate with a relentless force and Patrick forces his lip between his teeth against, pleasure coursing through his body like electricity as his hand reaches to tangle in Pete’s hair. Pete reaches up with his free hand, holding Patrick’s in his own as he swallows again and again. Patrick thrusts without thinking and Pete jerks back, gagging and digging his nails into Patrick’s wrist.

It doesn’t break skin but it works all the same.

Without warning, Patrick shouts out a sound that could be Pete’s name and throws his head back, Pete’s lips back around his cock. He explodes down the bassist’s throat, arching away from the couch and shutting his eyes so tight he sees stars. He feels Pete swallowing every drop that Patrick spills in his mouth and the thought alone causes his breath to catch in his throat. 

When Patrick opens his eyes in a moment that could either be seconds or hours later, Pete’s grinning at him proudly, both hands now on Patrick’s thighs.

Patrick lifts his head, boneless and light. His lip still stings and, when he glances down, he can see the imprint of Pete’s nails in his skin.

Pete ignores both things, smiling sideways and reaching to help pull Patrick’s bottoms back up. It’s gentle; it’s careful.

It’s something that doesn’t matter.

“I need to….return the favor…or whatever,” Patrick mutters. Pete shakes his head, searching for Patrick’s belt somewhere on the floor.

“You can do that later,” he says, though it sounds more like a joke than anything else. “I’m pretty sure we go on soon.”

He stands and helps Patrick to his feet, passing him his belt with a soft smile.

“It was nice, right? Doing things my way?”

Patrick darts his tongue over the cut on his lip. He lets his eyes fall to the marks Pete left on his wrist.

He smiles and it’s not entirely fake.

“Yeah, it was nice.”

_ It was perfect. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this is sort of a filler and I apologize for that. I promise that this is probably the only filler that this fic will have, only because I needed a transition into some of the more masochistic mindsets that Patrick's going to start finding. I really hope you still enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading and, as always, a ton of love to all the people who comment, kudos, and bookmark. You're the reason this fic is still going, haha. So, if you have the time (and any sort of love for this story) feel free to do one of those! I love getting comments and would love hearing what you have to say.
> 
> Thanks again! Have a great day!


	9. I'm [not] Going to Give You the Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bite me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! My second year of college just started so, with an actual schedule set in place for my life, I might be able to do more frequent updates! I hope you're as excited for that as I am :)
> 
> Also, be sure to check out the notes I left at the bottom of this chapter. I didn't want to make the opening notes too long so, once you're done with the story, give them a read. It's something else I'm sort of excited about.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for clicking on this fic and reading it-- whether you've read since the first chapter was posted or if you're just tuning in now. I appreciate every one of you. Now. On with the chapter!

**I’m [not] Going to Give You the Satisfaction**

  
  


Despite what he knows the others will try to tell him, Patrick spends most of the concert thinking about just how much he’s fucking it up. No note sounds right when it leaves his lips and each song mocks him with the ultimatum of overcompensating for the hoarseness with a painful reach for each note  _ or  _ giving his throat a break and allowing himself to have one less than perfect performance.

Really, it’s not much of a choice. 

Patrick shuts his eyes halfway through the set, ignoring the sight of fans smiling awkwardly each time he screws up. Pete’s at his own mic, thanking everyone for coming to see them. Patrick can’t focus on his voice, can’t think of anything other than how Joe frowned when Patrick messed up a chord— his hands shaking violently when Pete came over to rest his head against Patrick’s shoulder. He can’t help but wonder if Andy has counted the number of times— eleven— Patrick’s turned away from the crowd to face him, searching for a reassuring smile in between the songs. He can only imagine the way the audience will be talking about the band later, the way they’ll groan about it and insult it and the way they’ll feel embarrassed for even showing up because Patrick couldn’t keep it together for one stupid show.

“Now, we’ve got something special for you guys, alright?” Pete’s voice grows clearer, or maybe it’s just Patrick finally deciding to tune in. “How do you feel about a few acoustic songs right now?”

The crowd cheers louder than it needs to and Patrick opens his eyes to see them waving their hands in the air, jumping up and down as the band runs to the side to switch their current guitars for acoustic versions. It confuses Patrick that they’d so easily forgive how terrible his performance has been.

Well. Maybe they just had low standards to begin with; maybe no one’s paying his voice any attention at all. He’s not quite sure which scenario is worse.

The stage crew had set up the acoustic area while Pete had been talking and while Patrick had been too busy freaking out to notice. He follows Pete and Joe to the seats they’d set out, breathing shakily and staring at his hands. It can’t be that bad, right? It’s just two songs. Two songs and then he can go back to hiding his voice behind the layers of drums and guitar and bass the kids in the room really want to hear.

Pete clears his throat and Patrick looks over to see him smiling at the crowd. Smiling like nothing in his life can go wrong. Smiling in the way that all their fans praise. Smiling like nothing else matters.

Joe strums a chord; Patrick’s brought back to the stage with a startled feeling, not unlike that of hearing glass shatter against the ground.

His throat already feels like it’s bleeding. He won’t have his voice for the rest of the night— for the rest of tomorrow if he really pushes it. 

But there’s expectation in the room as he begins humming into the microphone, the feeling of razor blades replacing that of his voice. There’s excitement heavy in the air as the music starts to fill the stage.

Patrick can’t let these fans down. His voice will hold out for the rest of the show, he’s sure. It doesn’t matter what happens until then, so long as he keeps singing.

So, Patrick shuts his eyes, parts his lips, and— with more fear than any stage fright has ever given him— he begins to sing.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It's the end of the set-- the end of the night-- and Patrick can feel his hands shaking. He can’t control it any more than he can control the thoughts running rampant through his mind. Everything’s a blur as notes are yanked free from his throat, dislodging like a sob through the air. He listens to Pete screaming along with  _Saturday_ somewhere in the background . Patrick’s certain he’s in the crowd somewhere, distracting the kids from how terrible the singer is. 

Or, at least, Patrick tries to assure himself that they’re distracted.

Just a few more notes and then he’s done, he thinks, stumbling over a chord on his guitar and ignoring the strange look Joe shoots him. Just a few more notes. Just a few.

He’s shaking and he’s trying to hold it all together, trying to keep all his emotions bottled up inside because he never expected a poor performance to be his undoing. Sure, he can look at Pete and feel nothing other than a hand around his throat but that hand is what’s causing this screw-up. It’s what’s causing this frenzy of not being good enough, not being what they want, not being what they need.

One more note and then Patrick’s done. It's a high one, one of the places in Patrick's throat that's been suffering the most. He doesn't think that he can hit it; he _knows_ he can't hit it. But it's too late to back out now-- far too late. He could have left after the acoustic performance, where his voice had wavered and his eyes stayed shut. He could have left at the very beginning when he felt that his voice was going to fail them. But he can't leave now, not when it's one damn note between him and leaving this stage.

Patrick's eyes are on Pete, moving over the crowd like riding out a wave,  and he reaches for the note.

He feels the crack before it begins. 

He pulls away from the microphone with a sudden breath, cutting the note off short and refusing to finish the song. If he thought he was shaking before, he's practically coming apart now. His throat screams at him for the abuse it was put through but Patrick can't care about that discomfort when the feeling of so many eyes-- so many displeased and frustrated eyes-- stings so much more.

Joe plays a few more notes to finish off the show; Andy beats against the drums like a beast. Pete shouts out a good night to the crowd and thanks them for showing up. 

Patrick storms off to the side, tosses his guitar to the nearest techie, and begins to run.

Too much, too fast, too loud, too close. Everything is too much at once and he thought it’d get better once he got offstage. He thought he’d be able to calm down. But his hands are still shaking and he can still hear the roar of the crowd even as he chases down the halls. His vision won’t focus on any one thing, jumping from one detail to the next and telling him every way it should bother him. He wants to claw it all out of the air, snatch away the sound waves and break them in half because even the sounds of his own breaths grate against his nerves. Everything is  _ chaos _ and he’s never felt more betrayed.

He runs into an empty room, the last logical part of his mind screaming that it’s a bathroom and that it’ll be safe. He goes inside and shuts the door with a slam. He turns on the light last, biting his tongue because nothing he does seems to make sense anymore.

Everything’s a mess.

How did he let it get this bad? How could he let his feelings— harmless, pointless, meaningless feelings— get in the way of something as important as his singing? His….His  _ moments  _ with Pete were never meant to cross paths with anything else. They were never meant to leave the bus or the bunk or whatever bed they happen to fall into. They were never even meant to make it half this far.

And Patrick hates knowing that it doesn’t matter how long they’re supposed to last or what lines should be drawn. He’ll squeeze out every drop he can get like the selfish bastard he knows he is.

Still, he thinks, breathing heavy with the heel of his hands pressing into his eyes, something has to be done. He can’t give up Pete but his voice is just as important— if not more so. Isn’t that what attracted Pete to him in the first place? Isn’t that the first thing that caught his attention?

Patrick tries to swallow and it feels like being choked all over again.

Outside, someone brushes against the door— not enough to make more than a scratching noise but more than enough to make Patrick jump.

How long has he been in here? When will the others start looking for him? He can’t be in here too long, the others will want to go back to the hotel soon. Did anyone even see him rush in here? It’s a bathroom hidden in the back of the venue….Would anyone think to check it? 

Patrick’s breathing heavy, the breaths raging against his throat like a knife, and his hands drop to his side. He can’t bring himself to move or to look away from his own eyes— tragically anguished— staring back at him from the mirror. He can’t drag himself out into the hallway and put on the smile that they all need. He can’t pretend that he’s okay, not with these damned bruises destroying everything he’s fought so hard to keep. His voice, his composure, his  _ sanity _ .

Patrick’s hands are on his neck before he even has time to blink.

“Get off, get off, I need them off,” he hisses at himself, seeing nothing but accusations in his own eyes. His gaze falls down to where his hands tear at the skin of his neck, his blunt nails dragging across the bruises because he needs them gone, goddamnit! He’ll tear them off himself if he has to!

Red blossoms beneath his fingers but not enough to draw blood, just violent marks that his nails make across the bruised skin before fading back to blue. The shade seems so vivid now, matching his eyes, and Patrick almost laughs. Everything about his outfit looks nothing more than thrown together, from the flopping brim of his hat to the way one of his shoes just won’t stay tied. Still, at least he’s able to match his bruises to his eyes. At least he can do that much.

His vision swims before him, the way it does when he unfocuses his eyes out of boredom. He can only recognize the bruises and, before long, even those sink into the other colors around them. The blue clashes against the disgusting beige of the wall behind him, reflected in the mirror, and the edges of his own body blend in with the flickering fluorescent lighting covering him in the most unflattering way. 

He knows his hands are still shaking but he can’t feel them anymore. He knows that the scratches down his neck must be aching but that, too, has disappeared. Is this what he wanted? Is this the kind of numbness he craved?

“Patrick? I called you, like, twelve times. Why didn’t you answer?”

Patrick blinks. The world comes back into focus and, just like every time this happens, Pete is the first thing he sees.

“Wh-What?” Patrick asks, his voice hoarse. He’s sure he can blame it all on a long night of singing. “The door was locked, how did you get in?”

Pete’s eyebrows furrow together as he leans against the doorframe, his phone clenched tightly in his hand. Patrick has vague memories of it being waved around frantically and he wonders if those thoughts are from days or moments ago.

“The hell?” Pete asks, standing straight. “You opened it for me, right?”

Patrick lets Pete’s words sink in slowly and, as they do, he can feel the cool metal of the door handle in his hand. He blinks and looks down. The confirmation of Pete’s words shocks him less than it should.

“Oh.” There’s silence. Patrick licks his lips and something in his gut stirs when his tongue runs over the still-healing gash. “Pete, I need you to help me forget.”

His voice sounds broken but he’s past the point of caring— past the point of trying to sound the way everyone expects him to. His hands find Pete’s shoulders and pull him in. The door slams shut and Patrick’s too busy to think of locking it.

“I…I need to calm down, it’s all too much. Can you help me forget? Can you help me calm down?”

“Hey,” Pete says, his hands warm where they rest against the small of his back. “Is this about your singing? You did great, I promise. Didn’t even miss one note.”

He’s lying and Patrick can’t decide whether to accept it or keep pushing. If he listens to Pete’s voice, gentle and safe and good, he can almost pretend he’s overreacting. He can almost say that the show was perfect.

But he’s always been too hard on himself and he knows that what Pete’s saying isn’t true.

“I don’t care what you think,” Patrick snaps, the venom sabotaged by the thick layer of bruises pinching around the words. “I just need you to help me forget what I know!”

Pete lifts a hand and presses beneath Patrick’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. They’re closer than Patrick had realized, pressed together in the small space they’re sharing.

“I need you to tell me how.”

If he were braver, Patrick imagines, he wouldn’t say a word. He’d use his mouth for better things— better than sobbing out demands or singing songs for others to cry along to. He entertains the thought of erasing the distance between them; it’s already barely existent so why let it last longer than it needs to? He imagines pressing his lips against Pete’s and  _ showing  _ him everything he’s needed since the second he first heard Pete say his name. They’ve spent so long together, Patrick can imagine the way he’d ask why they didn’t do it sooner.

But Patrick knows the answer. He knows that, close as they are physically, they’re in different worlds when it comes to their emotions. He knows this and it breaks his heart.

He licks his lips again and settles for the next best thing.

“How much time do we have?”

It’s a line that Pete’s always said, not him, so it confuses Patrick when the bassist pulls away.

“Not much, Patrick. We have to get back to the hotel and—”

“I don’t think you understand,” Patrick says, straining to keep up the appearance of calm. “I need to forget  _ now _ . Everything’s just too much and too loud and I usually can deal with that, right? I can usually deal with noises and shit because, fuck, I’m in a band, I should be able to deal with a bit of chaos and usually, the silence is what kills me first but. I don’t know, Pete, I just can’t think of anything other than how much I fucked up and everything just goes into….into hyperdrive or some shit and I can’t stop thinking about those kids and how I let them down and how you guys will hate me if I fuck up the band for us and I can't—”

“Ok, stop.” Pete’s breathing at the same pace as Patrick and that can’t be healthy. He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh, controlling his breaths as time passes. “Bend over the sink. We might have time for that.”  

Patrick wastes no time obeying, reacting to the words like they’d been screamed instead of whispered. He lets go of Pete, staggering to the side and reaching for the countertop. It’s higher than some of the others they’ve tried this on and the edge of it digs into Patrick’s gut, making him a bit nauseous. Still, all of that means nothing as Pete locks the door and starts to tug down Patrick’s pants. 

“We don’t have lube or anything,” Pete says, one hand reaching to slowly stroke Patrick and another appearing before the singer’s lips. “So go ahead and wet them for me.”

Patrick leans forward, straining against the sink with a grunt, and lets Pete’s fingers slip into his mouth. It’s disgusting, the metallic aftertaste of bass strings reminding him of just how little time has passed since he ran offstage. He gags on the flavor and Pete pulls away at once, spit dripping into the sink as he asks Patrick if he’s okay. Patrick just spits and nods his head. He doesn’t have the patience to try to speak right now.

Pete’s slick fingers move to Patrick’s hole, circling it with a featherlight touch. 

“I’ll fuck you when we get back to the hotel,” Pete says, pushing the tip of a finger in and causing Patrick to groan. He leans over Patrick, his lips right by the singer’s ear and begins to thrust his finger in and out. “Doesn’t that sound nice? All laid out on a nice bed without having to worry about someone coming in or interrupting. I can have you all night long, there’d be no reason for us to stop after going at it just once.”

“Please, Pete,” Patrick moans, spreading his legs as far as he can with his jeans tangled around his ankles. “More. I…I need—  _ ah _ . ”

Pete adds a second finger and a bit more speed, his smile pressing against Patrick’s neck. 

“Calm down, I’ll take care of you.” Pete’s breath brushes over Patrick’s skin like a searing kiss.

“Oh my god, please, please, fuck me now, Pete, please.”

Pete ignores Patrick’s shuddering words, quickening his pace and using the other hand to jerk him off. 

“You’re lovely like this, you know that? Fucking perfect,” he says as his fingers find Patrick’s prostate. Patrick’s legs tremble and his knuckles grow white as he grips the edge of the sink. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but he’s still so close, so desperate to come. He moans loudly, his entire body shivering. Pete stops, just for a moment, before pressing in the third finger and aiming straight for Patrick’s prostate. Patrick cries out, his body going tense at the sudden pleasure, and lets himself fall completely limp on the sink, incapable of holding himself up any longer. 

“Pete, I’m close,” he manages to get out, little  _ uh _ ’s interrupting his sentence each time Pete thrusts back in. “I need you to….I like….You know?”

Pete does seem to know, as he releases Patrick’s cock and goes for his throat instead.

Everything flashes white and Patrick suddenly can’t feel his body.

He can’t see Pete; he can’t feel him even though he knows he’s touching him. He knows this is Pete, he knows that the only reason his neck is aching is that he begged Pete to choke him. There’s no one out to destroy his profession as a singer; there’s no Ian behind the touch.

Still, when Patrick can finally bring himself to move, it’s to yank Pete’s hands away.

“Not like that,” he says breathlessly. Pete hadn’t even started to choke him, how weak can Patrick possibly be? “My….my voice.”

“What do you want?” Pete asks. His pace slows down, just enough for Patrick to whine.

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding childish. He can’t reach the marks Pete had left earlier and it’s not the same just biting down on his own lip. He needs Pete to do something; he needs him to do something  _ fast _ .

Patrick glances up into the mirror when he hears Pete chuckling. Pete, who’s still thrusting his fingers in and out and pressing against Patrick’s prostate and making him moan. Pete, whose body is pressed flat against his and is obviously not very interested in what’s going on, if the lack of activity in his pants is anything to go off of. Pete, who will still give Patrick what he needs if only to shut him up.

Pete, who’s grinning for no reason at all; Pete, who’s brilliant teeth are all on display.

“Bite me,” Patrick whispers, shutting his eyes and pressing back into Pete’s fingers. He isn't surprised at the hesitation of the hitch of Pete's breath. He clenches his teeth together and presses back more forcefully. “It doesn’t have to be hard, just do it!”

Pete sighs again; Patrick feels the breath over his shoulder. His lips are so close that it’s almost like a kiss, almost like some form of intimacy. 

“One day, you’re gonna let me fuck you in whatever way I want to.” Pete’s either teasing or stalling as he runs his teeth and tongue over Patrick’s skin. “When it’s my turn, I’m gonna make you feel ways you never thought you could.”

His fingers jam into Patrick’s prostate over and over and Patrick can barely hear what’s being said. But he can feel it when Pete’s hand wraps around his cock; he can feel it when Pete starts speeding up his pace.

“Pete, Pete, Pete, please, oh my god, please, I need it, I…” Patrick’s babbling. He wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t making any sense at all.

“I know, ‘Trick, I know.” Pete waits. He pulls his fingers out just enough to make Patrick’s legs shake. A second passes, and then another. 

Pete breathes out, warm on Patrick’s skin.

“Come.”

Patrick screams as Pete jams his fingers back against his prostate and as blinding pain explodes across his shoulder. It travels down his chest and to his gut, white strips of come decorating his thighs as he reaches his climax, shuddering in Pete’s grip. Pete’s teeth are still attached to his skin, still clamping down and causing Patrick’s stomach to flip in impossible ways. 

Patrick does his best not to fall to his knees when Pete finally lets go, granting Patrick a half smile through the mirror. A drop of blood paints one of his teeth from where his lower lip had gotten mixed up in the frenzy. The sight makes Patrick groan.

“I meant what I said,” he states, looking more serious than suitable for this situation. Patrick laughs and lets his head down once more, exhaustion tugging at his body.

“If that was my way,” Patrick says, “I don’t think I ever want to see what you have in mind.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The mirror in the hotel bathroom takes up half the wall and is covered with too many smudges to count— a testament to how far the band has come since crappy little motel rooms and how far they have to go. Patrick runs his fingers over the glass, fascinated with how easily he can leave a mark. He wonders if the bigger hotels they passed on the way here smudge so easily.

His fingers trail down over his own reflection, tracing out bruises and hiding them with a few well-placed fingerprints. It messes with his mind to think of how easy it’s been to hide them from the outside world and, with the help of a mediocre mirror, himself. If he shuts his eyes, none of the wounds he drew from Pete exist.

But he can’t live with his eyes shut, a fact he's had to learn the hard way. Patrick opens them and lets his hand move further still, resting over the red crescents Pete’s teeth had left in his arm.

It’s not as bad as it could have been. The skin only broke in a few places and it’s bruised more than anything. Pete, though, had fussed over it once he had seen the small dots of blood decorating Patrick’s arm and making him wince but it hadn’t hurt so much once Pete had pulled away. It hadn’t been a big deal and Patrick made sure Pete knew that.

Now, with the marks all dressed in blue and looking like something from a fantasy novel, Patrick’s not quite sure what’s a big deal anymore.

The last thing he had wanted was another bruise, another disgusting flaw that’ll seem hilarious in the right light and horrifying in the wrong. At least it’s on his upper arm, he reasons. At least it can be hidden.

Patrick opens the tube of antibiotic paste that Pete had snatched from the bus’s first aid kit, tossing it his way with another concerned repetition of how “all the websites say to see a professional if it breaks the skin, man.” Pete had looked unusually guilty as he said that so Patrick had merely shrugged and, again, assured him that everything would be fine. Like he said, it was only in a few places.

Patrick applies the paste sparingly, biting his tongue to keep from crying out because, apparently, these bruises are deeper than the ones from his neck and that makes them sensitive. He doesn’t have a right to flinch away from the pain. It was his idea, after all.

Time passes in a strange way as Patrick ponders his new wound. It’s become a ritual now, it seems, to take time and meditate on how he feels after Pete’s used him in every way Patrick pretends to love. He doesn’t have time to feel heartbreak when he remembers how vividly he saw Ian the second Pete put his hand on his neck. He doesn’t have time to feel lonely when Pete’s fingers and teeth still dance around on his skin.

The dark blue of this new bruise— edging more on a brown shade where the teeth marks are most profound— taunts Patrick like a song he can’t quite compose. All of his emotions seem buried within the indents, swimming in the makeshift tattoo Pete has left. If he squints, hopelessness might wink at him as it makes its way into his shaking— they never stopped, he realizes, they never stopped— hands. If he stares for too long, want and need and desire color themselves in the violent shade, laughing as they do so. But they never sit still for long, none of the emotions do. Just like the collar around his neck worked by choking off his useless thoughts before they occurred, this bruise— a perfect chaos of reds and blues and blacks— will drown them the second they attempt to speak. They’ll inhale his pain before they can even open their mouths and Patrick will be reminded of how lucky he was to have Pete’s lips on him.

In a way, Patrick can almost trace out where Pete’s lips would have been, where they would have pressed against him without a choice. He can create the entire scene from memory, first painting Pete’s mouth and then his nose and eyes. Were his eyes open, Patrick wonders, as he brought Patrick to the point of screams and desperation? Or did he keep them shut, pretending this was someone else?

It doesn’t matter, Patrick supposes. As long as he has these bruises, they’re a reminder that there’s a way to make Pete stay. There’s a way to carry Pete on his body long after Pete decides to turn his back. So long as there’s a bruise, there’s proof that Pete had wanted to touch him.

He just hopes Pete was reading a reliable source when he said bites can take up to two weeks to heal.

Patrick tosses on a shirt and tugs the sleeves down before deciding he’s satisfied with his appearance. The bite was on his shoulder, edging onto his upper arm, but he can’t take any chances. There’d be too many questions with not enough answers if anyone saw. He’s not ready for that kind of confrontation. He doesn’t suppose he’ll ever be.

Pete’s sitting on the edge of his bed when Patrick re-enters the room. His laptop’s propped on his knees, dangerously close to falling, and it sways hazardously when Patrick plops down next to him, reveling in the proximity. Pete hadn’t fucked him like he’d promised he would, hadn’t even touched the idea since seeing the damage on Patrick’s arm. But it’s alright. He’s done a lot for Patrick today, more than Patrick has learned to expect from him, so he’s alright with letting Pete have a break.

Besides, he can store away the promise for another breakdown. 

Pete still hasn’t said a word, opening a new web page with a dark background and bright red font. It’s not any site Patrick’s ever seen before so, in a decidedly audacious move, he drops his head to Pete’s shoulder and tries to get a better glimpse.

Pete jumps and frantically switches tabs but not before Patrick sees the header.

He clears his throat; his face turns red.

“Um, Pete?” He asks, his voice trembling more than it has been the past few hours. “Why are you looking at BDSM sites?”

He lifts his head, at last, to look at the bassist. If not for the uncomfortable air around them, Patrick would be smug to see the bassist blush.

“I just…” Pete starts, shutting the laptop and setting it on the ground. “I wanted to…I mean, I know it’s not what we’re doing and, even if it were, we’d need to talk about it together but it’s close and I thought…”

Pete drops his head, somehow seeming as if he’d been scolded.

“You could really get hurt,” he says. “I want to make sure I’m doing everything right.”

Patrick’s silent at Pete’s honesty, something constricting around his heart in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.

“You know, it’s okay. If it’s you,” Patrick whispers, staring down at where Pete’s wringing his hands in his lap. “It’s alright if you wanted to hurt me. I’d let you.”

Pete’s head snaps up and Patrick moves to meet his gaze. There’s something in his eyes, something…..something violent and out of place in such a conversation. Pete has no right to look like Patrick's betrayed him somehow. He has no right to seem so hurt when Patrick's the one asking for the pain.

“Patrick, I—”

Their phones buzz in unison, one lost somewhere on the floor and another in a bag across the room. Patrick stands, tearing himself away from the scene and heading to their luggage. Pete’s moving behind him, slower than usual, and he hears him searching for his phone. Patrick lets out a breath that had been weighing heavy on his chest. 

Pete gets to his phone first, Patrick’s shaking hands making it difficult to unzip his bag.

“It’s Andy. He says we can’t stay here as long as we thought— management screwed up on reading the dates. Says he hopes we’re not going to be too upset about it.” Pete’s voice holds a sardonic tone that Patrick can’t quite understand. He turns to see Pete flopping down on the bed, letting his phone fall to the floor once again. “I’m not too hurt by it or anything. It’s not like there’s anything I’d look forward to  _ doing  _ in a hotel room. What about you, Rickster? Feel like you’re missing out on anything?”

There’s an insult or barb hidden in there that Patrick knows he going to cry about later. For now, though, he places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Of course not,” he says, smiling at the pain. “I always thought my favorite things weren't meant to leave the bus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! So. Just a bit of news.
> 
> So, if you're familiar with my other work-- "Until We Die or Forever Ends (Whichever One Comes First)-- then you should also be familiar with the small addition of bonus scenes and features I was working on directly after that. Now, it's been more than a while since I've posted on that one particular work (and I'll discuss that more in that work itself) but, recently, I've found both the time and motivation to start churning out those one-shots again!!
> 
> I've got quite a few of the pieces done. They just need to be edited and put into a certain order and then I can start posting. I LOVE the universe around Until We Die and it'd really mean a lot if you let me know if you'd still be interested in reading the bonus scenes. I'll be posting them regardless (in a week or so, after I've settled into my college schedule) but it'd be awesome to know that other people will be reading them. And, hey, if enough people return or show interest, I may open up requests for one-shots. Like I said, I love that universe and I imagine that it will always be near and dear to my heart.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading both this note AND the chapter. Don't get me wrong, I love this story,too. I was concerned about it once I started writing it again but your support and comments are what gave me back my enthusiasm and passion for this story. So, thank you!! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Leave a comment on what you thought and have a wonderful day!


	10. I'm [not] Hurt By This, I Swear It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of hurt and a bit of comfort for both of our lead characters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Another chapter! I'm actually editing and uploading this while I'm in class, haha, so please excuse any mistakes to be found! 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

**I’m [not] Hurt By All of This, I Swear It**

 

Everything’s going better than Patrick could have ever expected.

Of course, this isn’t saying much when the thought crosses his mind in the most mundane of settings. Situated behind the screen of his laptop in the bus lounge, headphones snug on his head while Joe helps Pete lug in the rest of their crap, Patrick finds no real reason to complain. For the first time in a long time, he can admit to himself that he's content with life. A song with a steady beat and distorted guitars plays on Garageband— a new project to take his mind off any resentment to be found in the old one. He drags a few notes around, humming and tapping his fingers on his thigh. Andy, reading on the other end of the couch, glances over with slight annoyance in his eyes but Patrick’s more caught up in the way he catches himself smiling.

Last night, he’d expected that he’d be a wreck for the rest of the week. Pete’s words were blatant and blunt and every shade of cruel that Patrick’s come to expect life to throw at him each time he gets his hopes up. Last night, he’d played them over in his head like a scratched record, He'd tortured himself, itching to find a different meaning or to twist the tone to make it sound less vicious.

This morning, though? Pete’s voice was the first thing in his head and his words hadn’t left— hadn’t stopped snarking about how there’s nothing worth doing in a hotel— until Patrick escaped into the bathroom.

The words stung but they also paled in comparison to the aching wound on Patrick’s arm. Crimson crescents and dark bruising met him in the mirror, a reminder of every realization he had had last night. In a way, that moment felt a bit like choosing which critics or fans to pay attention to in the crowd. It was eerily similar to the way Patrick would obsessively count to make sure that the ones who loved them always outnumbered the ones who jeered and spat. Each bruise exists as something Pete’s willing to do to him; it’s proof that Pete was there.

Patrick had taken longer in the bathroom this morning, counting obsessively and making sure the intensity outweighed the times Pete had let Patrick know that they’d never be more than friends. With a relieved breath and steady hands, he’d been able to calm himself down.

Still, Patrick can’t help but add some bitterness into the song he’s working on. The bass pieces become a tad more complex than usual, the notes sharp and hostile. It doesn’t matter as much as the other one did. He knows these notes can be easily covered by words.

Patrick replays the song, bobbing his head and saving it once it’s through. There are a few tweaks that need to be made and he’ll have to run it by the guys first but he’s confident enough to change the file from Work-In-Progress to COMPLETE. He grins as he does so, switching over to a less finalized melody. As it loads, he allows himself a few seconds of a well-deserved break. He pulls his headphones down to rest around his neck and tips his head side to side, trying to work out the kinks from staring at the screen. Joe calls someone a dick outside, probably him or Andy for not helping. But Patrick’s too much on a roll today to care; somehow, he's ready to take on anything the world has to throw at him.

And then he looks up and his eyes flash to the opened bus door. 

The first thing Patrick notices is that the girl Pete’s talking to is clearly a fan. He’s seen enough of them to recognize the patterns and mannerisms. Her cheeks spot red when Pete pats her on the shoulder in the middle of a sentence; her smile grows a bit too big and she ducks her head timidly when she giggles. It all reeks of an obsession she doesn’t want to share. Sure, she’s hiding her interest and excitement pretty well and Pete even laughs and lets her help toss some bags onto the bus— a kindness that makes Patrick feel guilty for frowning. There’s nothing harmful about having a fan around, even one with a crush, Patrick reminds himself. He just hopes Pete remembers the fine line between  _ fans  _ and  _ people that are okay to hook up with. _

Pete’s….nice to her. Not that Patrick expected him to be rude; he knows that Pete does his best to be nice. But it’s different when Patrick’s watching from a distance, as if glancing through a window to see if Pete acts any other way behind his back. He can more easily note the soft smile on Pete’s lips and the gentle way he passes the girl another bag for her to throw. They high-five, Pete holding his hand in place so she can slam her own palm against his. He’s at ease. At peace. Laid back. Mellow.  _ Gentle _ .

Patrick bites back a scoff and crosses his arms. There’s no reason to be jealous, it was silly to even entertain the idea. He has Pete figured out more than anyone else does. More than anyone begging for him to be gentle and definitely more than that girl outside, the one who can’t keep her eyes off him even when Pete doesn’t know she’s looking. Pete’s good at pretending he’s okay with it but experience has shown that he’s the opposite. The same way he’s the only one who knows what each lyric means, Patrick knows just how Pete likes to play: rough and fast with no care for the marks that will be left. Only Patrick gets to see that— or so he hopes. His hand brushes up along his arm, his mind pulling up the image he’d stared at in the mirror this morning to reassure himself.

Yeah. He’s the only one who really understands Pete.

But it doesn't change the fact that he can’t quite bring himself to look away, not when the girl’s finally revealing herself as the fan everyone already knows she is. She reaches into her pocket with shaking hands and an apologetic glance around. Patrick can’t hear her clearly but it’s obvious that she has to repeat herself a few times to get her words right. 

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Pete says, his voice as clear as ever. “You don't need to be nervous. It's not like I bite.”

Pete's not aware that Patrick's listening but his sarcastic grin would convince anyone otherwise.

The girl laughs and then yanks a handful of strings from her pocket at last, brightly colored and tied together to create four separate bracelets. Friendship bracelets, Patrick remembers from middle school. The girl brought them friendship bracelets.

He can’t help but smile. It’s a cute idea— really cute— and he does love his fans. Even if a majority of them have a nasty habit of flirting with his bassist.

The girl drops the bracelets into Pete’s waiting hand, the tips of her fingers skimming across his skin, and Patrick allows himself to forget the warmth he had felt at her thoughtfulness.

“Yo, Pete! We gotta hit the road!” Joe shouts, tumbling into the bus with the last of the stuff. He looks at Patrick and rolls his eyes as if there’s a joke they’re supposed to be sharing. Patrick grins in response and shrugs, pretending that he understood. 

“Be there in a bit!” Pete shouts back and Patrick looks over just in time to see him give the girl a hug and farewell. He waves to her as he boards the bus, her frantic waving back reminding Patrick of loved ones bidding each other goodbye. He turns his gaze back to the computer and harshly reaches to yank his headphones back on. Joe, however, begins talking before Patrick can fully tune the world out.

“That girl seemed cool,” Joe says. “Who was she?”

Pete shrugs. “A fan. She was pretty nice. She said she went to our show last night and that she loved it. Oh! And she made us some bracelets.”

“Bracelets?” Andy asks, peering up from his book with an eyebrow raised. Pete nods and begins to untangle the strings. Once free, he begins to toss them out. Blue for Joe and red for Andy. Patrick looks over to see Pete struggling to free the last two— black and white.

“Yeah, they’re, like, symbols of friendship or something? It’s actually really cute. Oh, and she said to say that she loved Joe’s hair, Andy’s tattoos—” Pete cuts off, finally freeing the last two and dropping the white one into Patrick’s lap, “ —and Patrick’s voice.”

Patrick looks up with a small scoff, lifting up his bracelet and placing it next to his computer. He wonders why his is white, if the girl specifically chose the color or if she left it up to Pete. He wonders why he cares. “That’s sweet of her but if she went to last night’s show—”

“She wouldn’t lie,” Pete says. Patrick looks over and takes a sharp breath at the intensity in Pete's eyes as he stares at him. “You were great.” 

Patrick’s words dry up in his throat like water evaporating on a hot day. He doesn’t have the energy for an argument about how horrible he was and he certainly doesn’t want to make up an excuse for Joe and Andy about why that was so. Instead, he shrugs— an action that makes Pete sigh— and pulls his headphones back up over his ears. 

It only takes three seconds before his eyes drift back over to the bracelet just to the side of his laptop. The white shade is tainted, black and blue and red fuzz clinging to the thing like bruises or cuts. Patrick glares at the flaws glares as if they had done him wrong. Why pick white? Why choose something so easy to ruin and knowingly press it so close to other colors? Other colors that can give all their ink to the white but take none in return? Patrick’s sure the girl had a reason for picking these strings. Maybe it was the only other color she had; maybe she imagined he might like it. He’s also pretty positive that there’s no way it was so corrupted before she shoved it into her pocket, excitedly imagining the look on Pete’s— or anyone’s— face as she thrust it into his hand. And can Patrick blame her? Hasn’t he done the same to his own life?

He lets his eyes drift over to Pete, standing with a hand pressed against the wall as he jokes around. He lets his eyes take in the ease of his posture and the softness of his smile. Fake, all fake.

He lets his eyes glance at the bracelet around the other man's wrist.

Patrick must have missed when Pete put it on, must have been too lost in his own thoughts to see him tie it around his wrist. Did he ask for help? Did he struggle? Or did he just laugh and use his teeth as an extra hand? Patrick shudders at the thought.

The black color rests nicely against his skin like another tattoo. Another work of art. Patrick stares for as long as he’s allowed, envying the juvenile piece of jewelry.

It doesn’t cling to him the way that Patrick would. It’s loose and dangles around his wrist, just barely promising to hold on. One small yank would tear it away, Patrick thinks. The softest of actions could cause it to break. Pete's the most careless person Patrick knows, why would he wear something so delicate?

Patrick’s broken from his captivation when Pete moves suddenly, scratching his neck and telling one last witty remark before heading back into the bunks.

Patrick’s learned how to ignore the looks Joe and Andy give him when he tosses off his headphones and rushes after Pete. It’s happened too many times before and they know better than to ask for an explanation.

“Pete, Pete, wait up!” Patrick says. He doesn’t know the point of these cries or what he's going to say after but Pete still pauses before climbing any further into his bunk. He glances up at Patrick from where he’s seated on the edge of the mattress, eyes curious.

“Oh, hey!” He smiles as if they hadn’t just been talking in the lounge mere seconds ago. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just.” Patrick pauses, hand flapping in the air as he thinks. Is he alright? Of course, why wouldn’t he be? Then why is he here? Why is he struggling to find something to say? It’s just Pete, right? Just that guy that Patrick can pretend he doesn’t love. Just that guy that’s made it very obvious he doesn’t love Patrick back. “Did you really think I was great last night?”

Tension Patrick hadn’t noticed before leaves Pete’s shoulders as he leans back. “Of course. You’re always great.”

Patrick nods and sits next to him without invitation. 

“But, like, even with the, um, with the throat thing? It was still good?” Patrick asks. Pete’s smile twitches but he still nods.

“You didn’t miss a note, trust me. Don’t worry about it.”

“You promise? Because I don’t want to screw up anything for the band and—”

“Patrick, dude, chill,” Pete says. “You were fucking perfect.”

Patrick looks down into his lap. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

He wants to revel in the compliments; he wants to play it all wrong and fish for more. Maybe if Pete keeps saying such nice things, if he keeps calling him  _ perfect _ , Patrick can pretend that there’s something real about them. He can pretend that—

No. Shut off the faucet. Pretend these thoughts don’t exist. 

Patrick shuts his eyes for just a second and thinks about his bruises. He thinks about the marks on his arms and how easy it is for Pete to leave them there. He thinks about the pain and the distraction. Nothing else can be allowed.

When he opens his eyes, Pete’s staring at him. Maybe he’s worried. Maybe he’s annoyed. But Patrick can only see how Pete’s fingers— calloused and rough— are so delicately fidgeting with the bracelet on his wrist. He can only see the way the string spins around the bassist’s skin with no regard for the nerves beneath. Patrick wants that. 

Patrick  _ needs  _ that.

He doesn’t feel it when his own fingers wrap around Pete’s to still his nervous motions. He doesn’t feel himself move in closer. 

But the words on his tongue and pounding in his chest are all too apparent. 

“The bracelet gives me an idea.”

It’s become routine to notice Pete’s hesitation at the switch in Patrick’s voice. Patrick takes note but doesn’t acknowledge it out loud. It might give Pete a chance to admit he’s done playing this game.

“You promised that we’d get together in the hotel last night but I guess we ran out of time. Do you want to do something now, real quick? Something to take your mind off things?”

_ Something to take your mind off that fan and whatever mark she’s placed on you with that bracelet? _

“Joe and Andy are right in the lounge,” Pete says, shoulders slumping as he lets out a breath. “And I’m not sure that—”

“No, don’t worry. We won’t do anything extreme but it’ll still be fun,” Patrick pushes. 

_ Notice the way Pete winces at your breath brushing across his face. Don’t acknowledge it out loud. It might give him a reason to shove you away.  _

“I won’t have to hurt you?” Pete asks. Patrick pulls back an inch, nose scrunching up in confusion.

“Have to? What do you— You know what, never mind. No. Well. Not much, at least,” he says, rambling as Pete considers his offer. “I just want my wrists held down. Your weight on them…Your fingers around them like our own bracelet…What do you think?”

Pete's hesitant but it’s far from a refusal. Time passes, enough for Patrick to situate himself further into the bunk and pull the curtain shut halfway. Pete’s eyes follow his movement and Patrick imagines that they grow darker with each second.

“That’s all you want?” Pete asks. “Just your wrists?”

Patrick nods. “Just my wrists.”

Pete’s next words are nothing more than a mere breath. “We’ve done that before.”

Patrick doesn't have time to understand, doesn't have time to respond, before Pete’s shoving him back with more force than necessary. His wrists end up above his head, a bruising grip holding them in place.

“We’ve done this before,” Pete breathes. 

And it’s then that Patrick realizes that Pete’s not talking to him.  

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s never noticed how soft Pete’s sheets are before. They certainly have no right to be, he thinks, not when his own are crinkled and crumb-filled from weeks of tour. It’s the first thought he has upon waking, keeping his eyes closed and nuzzling his cheek in closer to the comforting blankets.

His second thought is a screaming alarm that Pete’s still in the bunk with him and that he’s  _ stroking Patrick’s hair _ .

Patrick doesn’t move, not certain if Pete’s noticed that he’s awake yet. If he senses that Patrick’s up, he might move away. He might play his gentle petting off as an accident when Patrick knows it’s anything but.

Patrick evens his breaths and pays attention to Pete’s motions. His touch is surprisingly gentle, the tips of his nails just barely scratching across Patrick’s scalp. For a moment, Patrick allows himself to worry about his hat and where it might have ended up— he certainly hopes it hasn’t been crushed— but he and Pete have slept together often enough that the vulnerability he feels without it shouldn’t be such a concern.

Still. It does cause Patrick to mentally squirm quite a bit.

He knows for a fact that there are dozens of people Pete’s slept with before and Patrick can’t think of one with a problem like this. Not one of those people would be so insecure; no one would feel such a strong desire to hide.

“You need to wake up soon,” Pete whispers. His breath against Patrick’s neck is the only indication of how close they are. “I mean. You need sleep so, I guess, keep doing that if you want. But Joe and Andy might start asking what we’re doing.”

He says it with a light laugh that makes Patrick’s stomach turn. He can’t hide the disappointed whimper it evokes.

“Hey, hey, shh,” Pete says, mistaking the sound as a reaction to a bad dream or an upset waking. “It’s okay. You can sleep a bit longer. I don’t mind.”

But Patrick knows that he should get up. He shouldn’t stain Pete’s immaculate sheets with his scent or the other way around. He shouldn’t waste the day. He shouldn’t be here at all.

Pete chuckles when Patrick shifts, still debating whether to ‘wake up’ or not. “You’re so cute when you’re sleeping. That’s creepy, I know, but, like. You’re not as stressed, I guess. It’s good.”

Patrick takes in in Pete’s words, trying to discern whether he should appreciate or hate them.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I wrote lyrics for you,” Pete says, his voice barely audible over the rolling wheels and Patrick’s own tumultuous thoughts. “You just have to look for them.”

Lyrics. So they’re back to that, it seems.

Patrick doesn’t want to find the lyrics Pete’s written for him. He doesn’t want to pick and choose how Pete feels; he’s done that too many times before. If Pete has something to say, why not just say it? Why hide behind riddles and metaphors like the prize at the end of a treasure hunt? 

Besides. The brutally cruel lyrics in their songs tend to outweigh the romantic ones.

_ I’ll be your best-kept secret and your biggest mistake _

_ We never stood a chance and I’m not sure if it matters _

_ I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me… _

Which of those lyrics were written about Patrick?

It’s like a wrecking ball into his mind when he thinks it, the words he sings night after night coming back to haunt him in the worst kind of way. Doesn’t it make more sense for these to be what Pete means? Subtle hints at how embarrassing Patrick is? Indirect messages about his bleeding desperation?

Patrick doesn’t care about making it seem like a natural way to wake when he yanks away from Pete and forces himself to sit, chest heaving with heavy thoughts. He twists in an attempt to get out of the bunk, to run into the safety of neutrality that Joe and Andy offer. There, he doesn’t have to be  _ Trick _ . He doesn’t have to be a singer. He just has to exist— behind his computer, behind his hat, behind a pair of oversized headphones— and that would be more than enough.

But Patrick’s on the far side and pressed against the wall, trapped in like an animal. And he forgot about his bruised wrists.

“Ow!” He cries out, cradling his arm to his chest after the pressure he placed on his hands resulted in hot pain spiking along the new wounds Pete had added. Pete blinks, his hand pulled away and his eyes wide. “Sorry, I’m fine, it’s just—”

Pete leaves before Patrick can finish. 

_ Oh no oh no oh no, I made him leave, this is it. Great job, Patrick, now he knows how weak and pathetic and useless you are _

If Patrick’s breaths were heavy before, they’ve absolutely stopped now. His throat aches like Pete’s hands had been around his neck and not his wrists; his lungs refuse to deflate because he might release something unworthy into Pete’s air.

Pete might have just left the bunk— his own bunk— but what if it means something more? What if he decides he can’t deal with Patrick after this? Was the mere mention of his pain enough to make Pete scoff and turn away? Or….had this been building up? What did he do wrong? What did he do that wasn’t enough?

This is it, Patrick thinks. This is the moment he’s dreaded— the moment where Pete can’t bear to look at him anymore— and he’s not as ready to face it as he had thought.

Patrick glances fearfully out of the bunk when he hears Pete’s voice and laughter with the others. Is he supposed to leave? Crawl into his own bed, ashamed and alone? He can’t stay here, of course not. But leaving means he might run into Pete. It might mean confrontation and all the wrong kinds of pain. It would mean—

“I’m back!” Pete declares, flopping down onto the bunk with Patrick. He glances up at him through his bangs and holds up a soggy chamomile tea bag. “I got this for you.”

It takes six seconds for Patrick’s heart and mind to catch up with the sudden change of events.

“Oh. Okay. It’s supposed to go in some water and a cup, though,” he says stupidly, breaths still frantic. Pete rolls his eyes and sits up, one hand out as if Patrick’s supposed to give him something. Patrick only stares.

“Nah, look. My mom used to do this for me after soccer practice. You wouldn’t believe the bruises I’d get on my shins,” he says. “So, give me your wrists and tell me where it hurts most.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Patrick says automatically even as he sets his right hand in Pete’s. Pete left to get something to help him? But Patrick had thought that he was done with him, that he wouldn't come back. How's he supposed to pretend like he wasn't panicking mere seconds ago?

Pete frowns, though he doesn’t seem too surprised by the answer.

“Sure.” His lips purse as he scrutinizes Patrick’s arm, seeking out the deepest shade of blue— a place behind Patrick’s thumb where Pete’s fingers had dug in and refused to let go— and placing the bag over it. It’s warm, almost hot, and Patrick lets out a soft sigh of relief. Pete smiles at the sound and Patrick goes red.

“Did you steal this from my vocal kit?” He asks, staring down at where Pete’s carefully holding the tea bag in place. Pete laughs but doesn’t allow the bag to move an inch.

“Maybe. Don’t worry about it, though. Your voice is already awesome enough without it.” Patrick wants to argue but Pete carries on before he can. “Is it helping any? I mean, it’s supposed to help with the ache but I can’t tell if it’s doing anything.”

Patrick flinches. It's a sudden action where his mind screams at him to yank his arm away. 

Help with the ache? Take away the pain? What does Pete think he’s doing? Doesn’t he understand the point of all of this?

Pete just holds him in place with a tighter grip but doesn’t say a word. His thumb rubs soothing circles over Patrick’s skin, coaxing him to stay. Can’t he understand that the kindness will only make things worse? Everything Patrick’s been working for….Everything they’ve  _ achieved…. _

“You said I wasn’t going to have to hurt you,” Pete says. There’s a tone that Patrick’s rarely heard from him before and certainly not one he’s ever heard directed at him.

Betrayal.

“I still don’t know what you mean when you say that,” Patrick says, refusing to meet Pete’s eyes even as he tells the truth. How can Pete sit here and say that he  _ had  _ to hurt Patrick when none of what he did was by force? Pete’s words replay in his head.  _ I wasn’t going to have to hurt you _ .

What the hell does he mean by that?

Patrick blinks and he can still feel the heat of Pete’s hand pressed down tight over his mouth to keep the others from hearing. He can still feel the way his own teeth had dug into his lips, breaking skin and drawing blood in the most delicious way, Pete painfully unaware as he shut his eyes and groaned.

Patrick breathes and he can still remember the way Pete had bent down to brush his teeth against the bite mark from last night, teasing and taunting him with the thought of a deeper bruise and another shade to explore. He can still remember how it made him tremble, how he’d thrust his hips up at the feeling, desperate to prove to Pete that  _ this  _ is what made them work so well. This compelling dynamic of theirs was special. This power and control that they shared-- Pete’s physical strength and Patrick’s willingness to indulge in it-- is perfect in every way.

And how can he forget the part that he asked for? The part where Pete grabbed onto Patrick’s hands and forced them above his head, the part where Pete pushed himself between Patrick’s legs but refused to touch him in any pleasurable way. The part where he smirked and watched as Patrick pleaded to feel him, as Patrick writhed and gasped. The part where Patrick gave over all of his own control and decisions and fell apart. The part where all that mattered was Pete’s weight on the bones of his wrists, daring them to break.

No one forced Pete to do any of that.

“—okay? Patrick, dude, respond!”

Patrick blinks and, for a second, he’s shocked that he’s not on his back with pain spreading through his body. Pete stares at him with wide eyes and snaps his fingers again.

Again? Patrick’s eyebrows furrow together. How long has he been doing that?

“I think you zoned out for a bit,” Pete says once Patrick meets his eyes. Patrick hates the concern he sees there, hates seeming so weak in this moment. “Are you alright?”

Patrick takes a breath— he doesn’t know when he stopped breathing— and shrugs.

“You were in charge of what you did, you know,” he says, hoping to put an end to any future doubts Pete might try to share. It’s a step back in the conversation but it’s something Patrick wants to say. It’s something he needs to say while he still has this kind of attention on him. “So stop saying that you  _ have to _ hurt me. It’s your own choice if you want to go through with it or not.” 

He ignores any memories of how often he's pushed Pete until he gave in. There's a difference between pleading and forcing, right? It’s not like he held a gun to his head or made any actual threats. If Pete didn’t actually want to do this, it wouldn’t be happening. Simple as that.

“So what do the other guys think we’re doing?” Patrick asks when the silence becomes unbearable. Pete licks his lips and shrugs.

“Right now? I don’t know. But when you were sleeping I went and hung out with them. Just for a bit. To avoid suspicion or whatever,” he says, flipping the teabag over to catch some of the warmth from that side as well. “This one’s almost done. Do you want me to get some more for the other bruises?”

Patrick can’t find the will to respond.

Pete was able to leave while Patrick was sleeping, without a shred of doubt or caution. And, of course, it happened without a thought. It was the easy choice; it was obvious. Why wouldn’t it be?

What? Just because Patrick has a problem tearing himself away from Pete’s side at night or in the mornings, Pete should have the same problem? Just because Patrick hates the idea of being left alone, falling asleep next to someone and waking without them, Pete should cater to his whims? 

Patrick clenches his jaw. It seems that every time he thinks he’s advanced onto a new level of detached, Pete comes back just to point out another stitch.

Patrick can’t live with the stitches. 

“I’m fine. You can go.”

No one responds.

And, when Patrick looks up, he sees he must have “zoned out” again. 

Because Pete’s already gone.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Sometimes, on the most rare and special of occasions, Pete and Patrick share nights that are nothing more than friendly chatter and childish whispers. They used to happen more often, back when the band was just beginning and Patrick was Pete’s chosen one for insomnia aid. He’d poke and prod at him in the back of the van, whining about how tired he was but how he couldn’t force his eyes to stay shut for long. Even when the band grew and the van was left behind, Pete still made a habit of coming to Patrick’s bunk with a sheepish look and an admission that he didn’t want to have any nightmares. Anyone else might have thought it immature but Patrick just saw it as another thing that made Pete  _ Pete _ .

But all good things come to an end. Or, at least, they hint at it.

Patrick can’t remember the last time Pete needed him like that. He can’t remember the last time he was able to play the part of the best friend without missing a beat. Their nights have become nothing more than meaningless endeavors between the sheets and in the dark. They’ve gone from best friends to friends-with-benefits and Patrick’s determined to ignore the role he’s played in that. Besides, when so much time has passed, it’s easy to forget that he and Pete used to be that kind of close.

Until he gets a text at two am that reads nothing more than: “cant fall asleep w/o u”

Patrick blinks at the light of his phone as he reads it, the screen illuminating the bruises he’d been testing out earlier. Now that he’s been alerted to it, he can hear the signs of such a night. There’s shuffling in the bunk beside him, the sounds of someone trying to get comfortable but failing at every attempt. Huffed out breaths, shaky enough to make his stomach twist, fill the air every other second and Patrick hates himself for not noticing sooner. He shuts off his phone— no need to respond when he’s less than a second away— and rolls out of his bunk and crawls over to Pete’s.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up, I just….” Pete’s already rambling out apologies as Patrick pries open the curtain. “I just needed you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Patrick says, crawling into the bunk. “Never be sorry for needing help, okay?”

But a cruel piece of Patrick’s mind wonders if this is a trap. If he’s read the situation wrong and jumping to conclusions about the kind of help Pete needs. It’s been a long time since he’s been called in here for anything other than a quick fuck. What’s to make this time any different?

Patrick makes a fist and digs his nails into his palm as a reminder of what he really is to Pete.

“I keep shutting my eyes and trying to sleep but it’s like my brain won’t shut down,” Pete whispers, his arms wrapped around himself protectively. “All my thoughts are so fucked up that I’m not even sure they’re mine. What if I’m just thinking this way because someone else said it and it stuck? What if I’m lying to myself and I really am as bad as I think I am right now?”

Patrick takes a breath. Now’s not the time to be selfish. Slowly, he reaches out and places a hand on Pete’s arm.

“Pete,” he says. “I need you to tell me how to help.”

_ I need you to explain what kind of night this will be _

Pete doesn’t speak at first, just reaches out and grabs onto Patrick like he’s the only thing keeping him here in reality.

“Just stay. Please,” Pete pleads, his eyes squeezed shut. “And talk to me.”

“About what?” Patrick asks.

“Anything.” Pete’s voice is edging onto a whine, onto something that only Patrick would ever sound like. “Just talk louder than my brain right now.”

“What’s it saying?” Patrick can’t help if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s dealing with. Pete squirms closer to him until his head is pressed against Patrick’s shoulder and his arms are wrapped around him like a teddy bear. His breaths are ragged and, for a horrible moment, it sounds like he’s going to cry.

“I ruin people,” Pete whispers. “People like to meet me and talk to me and….and they like me but they always leave and they never leave the same. And the longer they stay, the worse they get. There are so many good people that I’ve ruined Patrick. I don’t want to ruin anyone else. I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t like hurting them, or, I don’t think I like—”

“Shh,” Patrick says, a reverse of the soothing actions Pete had done for him. He strokes Pete’s hair— soft and thick and perfect— and wraps an arm around him, keeping him close. He feels it like a switch in his mind as Pete trembles beside him, feels the change into the one mode that unrequited love and bruises can never interfere with— the side of him that refuses to let Pete be hurt. He rocks him as best as he can, the two on their sides as they hold onto each other. He lets his whispers fill the air around them. “You know that’s not true. You’re the best person I know and the most caring, too. You’d never ruin anybody and you’d never take pleasure from it.”

“Promise?” Pete asks. 

“Promise.”

Pete falls silent and Patrick passes the time by muttering about the most random things— from his dream last night to the color of the driver’s mustard-yellow shirt. Pete laughs a few times and makes Patrick’s heart clench each time he does so. Eventually, Patrick runs out of things to say and Pete mutters that he can hum instead. Anything to drown out these horrible thoughts. What Pete said keeps repeating itself in Patrick’s mind. Not for the first time in his life, Patrick wishes he could find whatever put them there and destroy it from the inside out. No one should have the power to make Pete feel like this. No one should cause him so much pain.

Maybe an hour has passed; maybe the entire night has gone in the second it takes to decide what to sing. It doesn't matter because Patrick can feel Pete giving into sleep in his arms. He can feel the tension ease from his body.

Patrick’s about to shut his own eyes and reward himself with some rest. But then, he swears, he hears Pete speak.

“I love you, Trick.”

It’s a whisper; it’s a quiet breath. It’s light in the air but still impossible to miss.

Just like the kiss Patrick swears he feels brush against his collarbone before Pete finally falls asleep.

Patrick’s eyes stay open and he can’t force himself to shut them, can’t force himself to do anything other than swallow his emotions and forget what just happened. It’s late. It had to be his imagination, right? Or Pete’s sleep deprivation? There’s no way that….Pete wouldn’t….

Patrick can’t go through this. Not again.

Slowly, Patrick unravels himself from Pete even as every fiber of his being screams at him to stay. Ice attacks him as Pete’s warmth disappears, numbing the pieces of his heart that beg for the security of Pete’s arms. He wants to stay; oh, how he wants to stay. But he knows that he shouldn’t. For both their sakes, he knows that he can’t.

He can’t give into emotions like last time. He can’t fall into this trip.

He does the only thing he can do.

He turns and goes back to his own bunk. It's cold and it's lonely and it's too dark to see his bruises.

It doesn't matter.

It's the only place where he's safe.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, okay. It's way more difficult to take notes and edit a fanfic chapter at the same time than I expected. I think I nearly broke my brain a few times there. If you see any random sentences about Beowulf, now you know why, haha
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please, be sure to comment with your thoughts! It means the world to me whenever I hear what you think :)
> 
> Have a fantastic day/night!


	11. I'm [not] Breaking Every Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of things you're supposed to do in these sort of situations and there are a lot of things you AREN'T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Before I apologize for taking half of forever to post this, let me shout out the amazing Raikea who took time to draw some fantastic art based off this fic! Like, what?? I don't deserve this, omg. I'm beyond amazed and I love it so much! Check it out! 
> 
> http://raikea-art.tumblr.com/post/166932897891/inspired-by-the-heartwrenching-story-by-this
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, [insert countless apologies and excuses here] Hope you enjoy this chapter!!

The bus looks cleaner from this angle. Crumbs hide beneath Patrick’s back, digging in with each noisy thrust; dirtied clothes tossed haphazardly across the floor hide any fallen headphones or junk food wrappers. The window above them fogs, the small parking lot outside obscured into something less predictable. It’s empty. Everyone else had left for some post-show party that Patrick declined— an eye on his bruises as he calculated how easily they’d be spotted. It’s silent, sounds found only between the gasping lips seen only by the single light left on after the others had left.

Not that any of this matters. Eyes shut, skin slick with sweat, fingers clawing  _ desperately  _ into the rough fabric of the couch… Patrick’s never felt dirtier.

“Come on, come on, Trick. Open your eyes for me.” Pete’s voice is thick with the sound of sex, words burning the air with his temporary lust. Fingers find Patrick’s hair and yank back, baring his neck, colored with hickies they’ve become too careless to hide. “Look at me, won’t you?”

Patrick can’t reply, his tongue feeling heavy and his head feeling light. Pete thrusts into him again, a growl escaping his lips, and Patrick lets out a broken cry. 

“Okay, okay,” he breathes, unable to feel anything other than the aching pleasure building in his gut as he forces his eyes open. “Sorry, sorry, I…  _ God, Pete _ …”

“You're vocal tonight, aren't you?” Pete grins, the words more breath than voice. His nails scrape teasingly over Patrick’s chest and a deep moan fills the air, followed by Pete’s cruel chuckle. “So glad the guys went out… So good that I can see you like this,  _ fuck _ .”

His hips slam against Patrick with relentless speed, picking up the pace and reducing Patrick’s moans to nothing more than an endless stream of “ _ uh, uh, uh, Pete, fuck, please _ .” Patrick reaches and tangles his fingers into his own hair, tugging as he feels himself growing close.

“So pretty… so good…”

“Pete, please, I  need—”

“You’re so perfect, Trick.”

Patrick’s head falls back, hanging off the armrest and turning his world upside down. His neck throbs from the unnatural position but it’s not enough. Not enough to distract him from the way his hips lift to meet Pete’s with every thrust; not enough to forget that Pete’s words are lies. He turns his head to the side, eyes closing once more as he cries out. “Fuck, Pete, I need more. I need… I need it now!”

He lifts his head up again, hands scrambling to find Pete’s as his wheezing breaths fill the air-- too loud, too much. His fingers only brush Pete’s for a moment before the contact is lost and Patrick whines as if Pete had pulled away from him entirely.

“I’ve got you,” Pete breathes. His fingers dance across the skin of Patrick’s throat. “Just… yeah, just a second and I’ve got you.”

Patrick’s lips come together, hiding another plea that feels as close as his orgasm does. He keens instead, a high-pitched sound, finding nothing to hold onto, nothing to grab, nothing to ground him away from how fucking good it feels to have Pete’s cock so deep inside him and—

And Pete presses down on his throat. Not enough to choke; not enough to even hurt. Just enough to imply that he could do either of those without hesitation.

Patrick tosses his head back, white exploding behind his eyes and thick spurts of cum exploding onto his stomach and chest. His throat aches as if Pete had gone through with the act but the lingering notes in the air let him know it’s only because he was screaming. 

Pete’s hand slides down Patrick’s chest, away from his neck, to brush across a hardened nipple. It’s a simple touch but Patrick whines and arches his back, his body betraying him by sparking sensitivity in every nerve. 

Erratic thrusts fade into gentle shifts of Pete’s hips as he slows, panic erupting in Patrick’s dazed mind as he notices.

“No, no,” he says in a wrecked voice, trying to convince his legs to wrap around Pete’s waist and tug him closer. “Keep going. You’re close, I can feel it.”

Pete pulls back, a hand pressing into Patrick’s thigh. His hips have slowed into soft stutters, twitching with the need to continue while fighting Pete’s irrational want to stop.

“This is… It’s hurting you,” Pete breathes. Like it matters, like they haven’t gone over this part a dozen times before. Patrick reaches for Pete’s shoulders, drawing him down and grinding his hips enough for the both of them. He fucks himself on Pete’s cock, nails digging into the other's back as he bites his lip against the wave of overstimulation burning in him.

“It’s fine,” he says, teeth clenched tight together as his own cock twitches in response to the activity continuing so close to it. Patrick picks up speed, biting back a cry of pain. “Just finish, I need you to finish. I can  _ take  _ it, Pete. I want it.”

Pete pauses, eyes scorching as he watches Patrick’s writhing form beneath him. His hands— hot and stern— find Patrick’s hips and hold him still.

He pauses. He closes his eyes.

And then he nods.

With his eyes shut so tightly that a fresh feeling of pain alights in Patrick’s chest, Pete smoothly pulls back and slams back in with a groan that covers Patrick’s whimper. He leans down, hovering over Patrick without submitting himself to seeing him, his stomach brushing against Patrick’s softened and sensitive cock with each inconsistent movement. When Patrick whines, it only causes Pete to snap his hips back and forth with more violent fervor, desperate to get off to the sound. Patrick’s hands fall to his sides, forming fists as they claw at the couch. He can’t make a sound, won’t make a sound,  _ refuses  _ to do anything other than let Pete have his release.

Pete’s hands stay on either side of Patrick; his lips only allow breaths of air and pleasured moans to leave his throat. The only place Patrick can feel him is between his legs. The only acknowledgment he can hear is in the way his mind deceives him into believing each moan carries the same letters as his name.

Tricks. He can’t let himself be fooled by such things.

“Almost there,” Pete says at last. “Just hold on a sec— a second longer.”

Patrick makes no sound, a strike of lightning shooting through his body as Pete slams into his prostate. His teeth— clenched around his bottom lip so not to frustrate Pete with the sound of his cries— draw blood, enough to distract him from the way Pete’s trying to hold his hand.

_ A second longer,  _ Patrick thinks _ , I only have this for a second longer _ .

Patrick lets one hand relax, lets Pete wrap his fingers with his, lets their palms press together because God knows Pete won’t let this happen in any other situation. The bruises seem to remind him of the same thing as Patrick now: this is all they are meant to be.

Patrick arches his back, breathing too heavily as blood splashes across his tongue— a taste that’s become too familiar to be concerning. Pete’s thrusts become sloppy; his voice becomes louder and, for a moment Patrick hears his name.

_ “Patrick, fuck, I— _ ” Pete cuts off, a shaky breath covering his words as he finally,  _ finally _ , releases inside of Patrick, shuddering as Patrick grows limp beneath him. Seconds alone seem to pass before Pete takes another hungry breath, his eyes opening into content slits before he pulls out with more care than necessary. 

“I can go get the tea bags,” he says, his voice tired even as he pushes himself up and away from Patrick. His fingers find the singer’s hair, stroking as his voice drops to a softer tone. “I’ll grab some blankets or water or something. Make sure you’re okay or whatever.”

Patrick shakes his head, his fingers gripping Pete’s arm to keep him from leaving. “Let’s go with whatever. I’m too tired for that and I can tell that you are, too.”

“But…” Pete trails off, his bottom lip catching between his teeth as Patrick’s hold on his arm grows tighter. He won’t let him go,  _ can’t  _ let him go. Pete has this stupid habit of trying to make things  _ better  _ after they do this and Patrick refuses to let him undo all the good that moments like these cause. “I’m supposed to take care of you after. I’m not supposed to…”

“You’re not supposed to do anything other than stay here and cuddle with me,” Patrick says. Pete’s a cuddler and Patrick’s counting on that to make him stay. “Screw what some fucking kink site says. It’s a  _ kink  _ site, how trustworthy can it be?”

It’s enough to make Pete smile, enough to have him press his head back into the crook of Patrick’s neck. He breathes deeply, sounding as content as Patrick feels. Of course, there’s a compromise Patrick doesn’t remember accepting. Pete still murmurs kind words to him and asks for reassurances that Patrick’s too exhausted to give.

“You looked so good, Patrick, you have no idea. Everything was great, right? Are you sore? Do you want anything? Are you comfortable?”

Patrick merely nods and sighs, shakes his head and mumbles the answers he’s supposed to give. With Pete’s hands stroking his skin, rubbing his sides and playing with his fingers, it’s not quite as bad as it could be. He has no reason— or right— to complain.

Finally, Pete curls around Patrick, squeezing himself between the singer and the couch because, he’s claimed, it feels safer. He keeps mumbling, words of praise that Patrick can’t bring himself to respond to. Not out loud, at least.

“It’s amazing that you can take all of that pain-play and stuff.”

_ It’s amazing that you’re willing to call it play _

“You look so damn pretty when I’m fucking you.”

_ How would you know? Didn’t you keep your eyes tightly closed? _

“You know I think you’re awesome? You know I think you’re special? You know you’re my favorite person in the whole entire world?”

_ You know I don’t know anything like that. _

Pete falls silent after moments of no response, Patrick breathing evenly enough to feign sleep. The bassist sighs, wrapping an arm around Patrick’s middle, and goes still. Seconds pass, then minutes. Patrick has no idea when the others will come back but it’s not like it matters. The door’s locked, just like it always is when Patrick finds himself with Pete like this.

Pete’s breaths are soft and childlike as he drifts into sleep. It’s not the deep breaths and drawn out sighs that mean he’ll be sleeping well but it’s enough to say he’ll be sleeping at all. It’s enough to ease Patrick’s mind.

Patrick begins by lifting Pete’s arm off of him, slipping away from the couch with a grimace. His lower back aches and his legs still tremble, his body not quite ready to be more active than necessary yet. Still, it’s important that he leaves while Pete’s asleep. It’s important that he leaves while he’s aching from Pete’s touch— not for it. 

It’s a routine and it’s important that Patrick follows it.

He dresses slowly and silently, even the soft drag of his jeans across his legs too loud for him. He winces as he pulls up the zipper, cringes as he trips while collecting his socks. As he reaches for his shirt, feeling horribly exposed in just his jeans and mismatched socks, Pete calls out to him.

“Patrick?” He asks, half-asleep but still causing the younger boy to freeze. Patrick’s next to the couch, on his hands and knees, waiting for Pete to ask him to come back. 

But the bassist doesn’t.

“Why do you like to be hurt?” Pete asks instead, his half-open eyes following Patrick’s movement with a scrutiny better saved for playing bass or answering interview questions. But he’s not looking at anything other than Patrick’s frozen figure, their faces inches apart. Patrick hates the position he’s been caught in. His mouth goes dry as he searches his mind for an answer, for something to send Pete back to sleep with no pestering questions or suspicious thoughts. 

He’s never really given Pete a reason, has he? A real one, something the bassist can hold onto and believe. Isn’t it enough to let Pete have his fun, to call it something enjoyable and move on? Flames spread through Patrick’s blood as venom rises to his tongue, a cruel voice demanding him to spit out  _ Why do you like to hurt me?  _

He doesn’t. He’s done enough shouting tonight and he needs to save his voice, if nothing else.

“It’s a… a distraction,” he says, playing with the truth and testing how much fog he can place over it. “It takes my mind off of the things that, like, mess with me. It’s like playing music but easier to get to.”

Pete’s silent for a long while, shifting until his eyes are wide open and he’s sitting in a slouched over position. “I suppose that makes sense. You’re talking about stress and stuff, right?”  

“Sure.” The word catches in Patrick’s throat, distorting it into something that sounds too much like a lie. Until it sounds like he’s a second away from revealing the truth.  “I mean, yeah. Whatever. I don’t think about it too much.”

Pete doesn’t answer, merely reaches for his own clothes and starts to dress. Patrick still can’t bring himself to move. Selfishly, he allows his mind to wander as his eyes rest on Pete. 

They weren’t always like this, were they? Fucking and hiding from conversations, slipping away from each other like words they should have said years ago? Patrick tries to remember a moment when any of this felt right, when being so close to Pete felt  _ normal _ . Surely, those memories must be wrong; nostalgia’s a bitch and he refuses to fall into the trap of wishing for something that never existed to begin with.

He reaches for his shirt at the same time Pete goes for his belt curled up beside it. Pete’s fingers brush against the bruises on Patrick’s wrists. Accidental. Unintentional.

It's soft, gentle. It's fleeting.

It's nothing Patrick’s ever wanted to experience.

To call it an “electric shock” or a “strike of lightning” would be cliche. But anything else would fail to do it justice.

For a moment, a spark fills Patrick’s being, pulsing and stinging with the simple touch of Pete’s fingertips against his wounds. It lasts for just a moment, just a fraction of a breath, but heat fills Patrick’s chest at the feeling. His breathing stops and his vision focuses only on Pete’s hand on his. It’s like something not yet discovered has taken over him, an emotion that shouldn’t exist. It’s more than strange; it’s less than perfect.

It’s gone before he can force the feelings away.

Pete snatches his hand back as if they were his bruises that had been touched, as if he’s the one with pain radiating from his body. His belt’s forgotten on the ground as he stares at Patrick’s bruises. He’s been doing that a lot recently.

“Patrick, I—” He cuts off, swallowing and forming words in his mouth as if it’s a task for him to do. “Patrick, I don’t like hurting you.”

All Patrick can do is focus on the uncertain beating of his heart. 

He’s already answered one of Pete’s irrational statements tonight—  _ why do you like being hurt _ , as if something like that needs an answer. He’s not so keen on answering another. Hasn’t he given enough?

No.

It’s never enough.

Patrick snatches his shirt up and stands, harsh actions hiding the turmoil in his chest.

He’s supposed to be  _ fine  _ after the little bits of time spent like this. He’s supposed to be crawling back to his own bunk with an ache in his body and a numbness in his heart. He’s  _ not  _ supposed to hear Pete’s illogical doubts and feigned concern. He’s  _ not  _ supposed to want to lay back down next to Pete, to want to cry or smile or scream or  _ stay _ .

“I’m going back to my bunk,” he says, the words strained in the tense air. Pete looks up at him, looking more like a lost dog than the boy breaking Patrick’s heart.

“Why do you always leave?” Pete asks with sadness in his voice.  _ Sadness.  _

_ The fucking nerve. _

He thinks he has a right to feel  _ sad _ about this? To hurt and guilt Patrick into feeling the same? He thinks it’s okay to hang his head and look up with big, shining eyes like he’s the one playing the part of ‘lover of the week’? What right does he have to show off emotions that Patrick’s been fighting so hard to keep down? What right does he have to put on Patrick’s pain and call it his own? Pete knows nothing of unrequited love and finding solace in darkened rooms. He can’t possibly understand the necessity of hands around his throat and broken skin underneath a lover’s nails. He can write down as many words as he wants— words about burning bridges and crashing cars— but none of them will ever be as accurate as the bruises painting Patrick’s skin. Nothing will ever prove how painful love can  _ really  _ be as well as the fucking fire in Patrick’s chest at the sound of Pete’s voice.

Pete wants to feel sad about Patrick leaving?

Then he shouldn’t have been the one to push him away to begin with.

“We went over this,” Patrick snaps, his voice as cold as the night Pete first dared to give him the slightest impression of hope. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Pete’s eyes are wide; his hands form fists in his lap, still bare with his jeans hanging forgotten over his knees. It should be pathetic but Patrick still finds a knot taking shape in his throat.

Why does the sadness in Pete's eyes look so damn familiar?

Patrick turns away. He can’t stand to watch this manipulation any longer. Pete’s hurt expression… his pained tone… It has to be a trick. Some way to make Patrick guilty for… for something. For anything.

For everything.

Frustration and anger and fucking  _ emotion  _ well up in Patrick’s chest like a flame sent to burn down any progress he made at distance tonight. It longs for Pete like fire longs for oxygen, urging Patrick to turn back around so he can finally  _ breathe _ .

Patrick can’t do that.

He can never do that.

“It doesn’t mean a fucking thing.” The words leave his mouth like venom. He doesn’t need to turn to see the way Pete’s hurting now. The hitch in the bassist’s breath is more than enough.

Patrick storms off without another word, trying his best to seem dignified even with his jeans half done and his shirt still clenched in his hands. Pete doesn’t call after him; Patrick hates himself for expecting him to.

The curtain separating the bunk area from the lounge yanks back behind him, harsh enough that he’s worried he might tear it. He wonders if he should work on being careful. He wonders when his mind will stop finding meaning and metaphor in everything he does.

Still. He can’t bring himself to let go of the curtain, to move away and into his bunk like he said he would. He’s frozen, incapable of even breathing, as Pete’s shaky breaths fill the air.

_No._

_Don’t pay attention to those._

_He’s just trying to get back to sleep, having another bout of insomnia._

_It doesn’t sound like he’s upset. It doesn’t sound like he’s hurt. It doesn’t sound like he’s holding his head in his hands, bent over and whispering Patrick’s name. It sure as hell doesn’t sound like he’s cryi—_

Tears spring to Patrick’s eyes, traitorous and treacherous. He said he wouldn’t do this anymore, said he wouldn’t shed tears over anything he can’t control. 

And he can’t control it, can he? It’s not his fault if Pete’s hurting over something as stupid as Patrick’s reiteration that they’re nothing. 

They’re nothing.

Why does it hurt so much to think that phrase? 

The curtains come loose from Patrick’s grip and his fingers find his wrist, the shirt falling to the floor.

“We’re nothing,” he reminds himself, digging his thumb into a bruise. He shuts his eyes; he revels in the pain.

“We’re nothing.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s the sound of shuffling footsteps and tired laughter that interrupts Patrick’s half-asleep state hours later. He’s curled up in his bunk, facing the curtain, when the others return. Pete hadn’t come to the back before then, hadn’t gotten into his own bunk. Hours must have passed and he’s telling himself he’s not concerned about Pete’s refusal to sleep. 

“Hey, hey, Pete. Just a sec, I need to talk to you.” Joe’s not as discreet as he must think he is, whispering in the area outside Patrick’s bunk as everyone crawls into their beds. Footsteps. Heavy breaths. Pete’s sigh and Joe’s urging tone. “Is Patrick alright? I mean, I know he said he wasn’t feeling well but we haven’t seen much of him in general and… I’m just worried about my friend, man.”

Hesitation. Pause. Patrick holds his breath and listens to Pete shift his weight, the floor creaking slightly beneath him as a testament to how silent the night is supposed to be.

“He says he’s fine,” Pete says at last. Patrick can imagine the way he’s folding his arms, averting his gaze, doing everything to make it as unbelievable as possible. But Joe doesn’t push it, merely hums before continuing with a follow-up question.

“And are you alright?” He asks. Patrick swallows down any guilt that tries to flow back through his veins. “I don’t wanna be pushy but you look like you’ve been…”

“I’m just tired,” Pete says. Too quickly for anyone’s liking.

Joe’s whispers become murmurs become words that Patrick should be asking. “But are you okay?”

The silence that follows feels endless. Patrick pinches a bruise and tells himself it’s only the darkness and his eavesdropper’s shame that makes it seem so.

“Yeah, of course. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” No one answers the question and Pete sighs once more. “You should get in bed. We’ve got a long drive and you’re fucking annoying when you’re bored.”

Joe laughs and the tension is gone. Is it supposed to be that easy?

Patrick listens as Joe crawls into his bed, cursing out Pete with a grin in his voice. Patrick listens as Pete laughs back, a soft sound that shouldn’t cause Patrick’s heart to skip. It’s just because it’s late at night, Patrick thinks. He doesn’t have his full mental strength to push those feelings back. Besides, no one’s logical at night.

Pete doesn’t move for a long time, his presence outside Patrick’s bunk as obvious as if his curtain were pulled back. Pete’s breathing is soft but the bus is already so quiet… Patrick holds his own breath in fear of what would happen if Pete decided to sleep in Patrick's bunk tonight. He shuts his eyes in terror of the conflicting emotions filling him at the thought.

But then he hears Pete turn and open his own curtains. He hears Pete whisper a “good night, Patrick” and climb into his bed. He hears Pete shift around, get comfortable in his bunk. He hears the curtain shut.

Then he doesn’t hear anything at all.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

When Patrick wakes a second time, it’s to the hot, burning, scorching sight of Pete’s eyes resting on him.

Any and all sleep slips away as Patrick pulls back, the last remnants of exhaustion forcing sluggish movements and slower thoughts, rationality fading as quickly as his dreams.

What’s Pete doing, staring at him like this? What time is it? Patrick merely remembers blinking, shutting his eyes to trap the tears. It can’t be morning, can it? Is Pete here to… Is he here to crawl under the sheets and tear at Patrick’s clothes? Or is it something less straightforward, something based on conversations and therapist-styled questions? Patrick’s eyes widen as he worries if he’s merely trapped in another nightmare like so many he’s had before.

His hand twitches, the need to grasp at a bruise overwhelming, and a sharp attack of pain spreads up his arm. It forces him to gasp, to look away and find the source.

It forces him to realize his fingers are already digging into the bruise on his wrist, that he's been scratching at it in his sleep. It forces him to see this is what Pete had been staring at.

Patrick sits up, movements jerky as he tries to distract both himself and Pete from the events of the past few seconds. It means nothing that Patrick had been messing with his bruises subconciously, right? Plenty of people do that, he’s sure. There’s no way he’s the first to let his daytime issues sink into his sleep. And there’s no way Pete really cares.

“What are you doing?” Patrick asks, rubbing his eyes with a yawn. Pete blinks the strange expression from his eyes— something stuck between angry and scared— and lets a smile light up his face. Patrick can’t look at it for very long.

“We have a few hours until we get to the venue,” Pete says. 

Patrick raises an eyebrow, the action helping platonic normality to fit in place. “You woke me up to tell me that I had more time to sleep?”

“No,” Pete laughs, sounding less strained than his expression would suggest. “You’ve been sleeping forever, Patrick. The dudes sent me to check if you were planning on joining us.”

“Well, I’m fine so—” Patrick cuts off. None of them mention how he gave an answer to a question Pete didn’t ask— out loud, that is. He looks away, eyebrows drawing together as he tries to find a way to recover, a way to convince Pete the words he spoke are true. 

And an idea— an idea he hates— pops into his mind.

“A few hours, huh?” Patrick asks, glancing at Pete with a playful grin, letting his teeth drag over his bottom lip as he fills his voice with as much suggestion as possible. Not that he needs too much, no. Lesser attempts have worked just as well in the past and Patrick’s already thinking about what position he’d like Pete to take him in this time. Maybe they can sneak into the back room again and Patrick can wind up on his hands and knees. Maybe they’ll hide in the bunk, Patrick on his back and his hands fisted in Pete’s hair. Maybe Pete will push him to the ground in the hallway, the flimsy curtain between the bunks and the lounge closed shut behind them as he forces his cock between Patrick’s lush lips. Maybe, maybe, maybe

Pete pulls back, the smile not once leaving his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just enough time for us to team up against Joe and Andy on that new video game they got.”

This…

This is not what Patrick expected.

Patrick’s nose crinkles and his eyes narrow as Pete’s word sink in, not a hint of innuendo within them. He tries to remember the last time Pete’s suggested something so innocent but the only moment his mind wants to recall is the milkshake they shared. And Patrick remembers too vividly what happened after that.

“Um, okay,” he says, stumbling out of bed and tugging his shirt back down over his stomach. He reaches for a hoodie and tugs it on, too aware of Pete’s excited eyes on him the entire time. It’s almost laughable, really, the excitement Pete’s wearing as Patrick puts his clothes  _ on _ . “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

Pete’s smile grows and he reaches out, grabbing the sleeve of Patrick’s hoodie. It tugs down, covering his hand, covering his wrist. 

Covering his bruises. 

Pete doesn’t look down at them once. 

“Yes,” he says, pulling Patrick along. “Of course.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“Joe, you suck at this game!”

“Fuck you, Patrick!”

“Can you guys shut up? You’re distracting me from winning!” 

“Fuck you, too, Hurley!”

The group laughs, spread out in the lounge, each with a Nintendo held tightly in their hands and their eyes fixated on their screens as they race each other virtually. They’ve been at it for an hour or so and lost count of who’s won the most.

They’ve been seated in the lounge for longer than Patrick thought they would be and Patrick’s starting to lose count of the number of times he’s started to feel normal.

Normal. 

What does that even mean anymore?

Patrick tries not to answer that question, pressed into the couch with Pete sitting closer to him than needed. Their legs press against each other and Patrick tries not to flinch at the feeling of Pete’s breath tickling his neck each time the bassist turns to whisper a cheat or hack to him. 

Every motion. Every twitch. Every tremble from Pete’s body travels straight to Patrick’s, a constant distraction keen on stealing all of Patrick’s focus from the game.

He allows his body to tense in hopes that Pete will get the hint and move away. He holds his breath each time Pete turns towards him— he hopes that Pete will notice that, as well. 

“Dude, if anyone’s winning it’s me,” Patrick says, a line that he hopes will fit into the conversation. Someone calls him a cheat and he grins in their general direction. Andy— the culprit— flips him off.

“Okay but, seriously. Patrick’s won the last three rounds, I’d bet half my soul that he’s cheating,” Joe says. Everyone laughs and Patrick’s too distracted by his proximity to Pete’s smile to defend himself.

“Only one way to find out,” Pete says, setting his own device down. Patrick’s eyebrows furrow together; his lips form a frown. None of this fits into the script he’s used to reading. 

“What are you—”

“Give me the Nintendo!”

Pete lunges for Patrick’s Nintendo, tackling him in the process. On instinct, Patrick raises the device high over his head, cursing and shooting glares at Joe and Andy for laughing at him so loudly. His frustrations and concerns slip into something lighter as Pete struggles for his game, laughing like they’re friends.

Well.

They are, aren’t they?

“You asshole, get off me!” Patrick shouts, hitting Pete's head with the game as the bassist practically crawls all over him. His hands run over Patrick’s sides and his breath ghosts across his cheeks. But there’s nothing sexual about it; there’s nothing Patrick can call familiar. “What the fuck, I said get off!”

Patrick’s shouts drown out Andy’s declaration of making it to the lead. Joe’s still making fun of Patrick— likening his and Pete’s position to a ‘kinky sex move’ and making Patrick’s heart stutter in the process— when the Nintendo goes flying from his hands. It lands on the floor with a cracking noise that has Patrick swearing he’ll kill Pete if it’s broken.

They reach for it at the same time, deja vu striking Patrick with the same feeling as being slammed against a brick wall. 

This time, though, holds no tension. This time, though, they don’t have to worry about brushing their fingers in an imitation of something romantic.

This time, though, they’re both too hasty and they fall off the couch, Pete on top of Patrick and Patrick sprawled on his back.

No time to worry about insinuations or the way his body reacts to the position— reddening cheeks and a coil of nerves in his chest— as Andy says he’s going to break Patrick’s winning streak. Patrick reaches above his head for his game. Pete does the same.

This time, though, is different.

Pete’s face hovering just inches above his, spread out above him as Patrick spreads out beneath him. Patrick’s neck bared as he tries to twist his head to see where to reach. His sleeve riding up from the action. His bruises on display.

Pete’s outstretched hand brushing against each bruise. Accidental. Coincidental.

Perfect.

Now it’s not just Patrick’s body reacting to the circumstances— it’s everything.

“I was wondering when this part was gonna happen,” He murmurs, smirking because  _ this  _ is what he’s used to. Finding foreplay and tension in crowded moments, reading between the lines and seeing what Pete really wants. He rolls his hip, enough to suggest but not enough to be seen. “I’ll race you to the back room. I’ll even let you win, if you want.”

Pete should return his lascivious grin, should take him by the wrist and yank him to the bed. He should already have his excuses planned, a lie to tell the others. He should be excited. He should be happy. He should be ready. 

He should be giving in by now.

Instead, Pete’s nose wrinkles and he pulls away. Instead, he’s off of Patrick in a second. Instead of taking Patrick up on his offer with bright eyes and anticipation, he backs up with nothing but pure disgust on his face.

“Pete? What?” Patrick bites his tongue. He can’t ask anything out loud. Not with Andy and Joe sitting right there. Not when no one else seems to notice or care about how he feels. 

Pete’s lips part and Patrick can almost imagine he’s going to say something. Instead, Pete breaks character once more to run his hands over his face with something akin to a groan.

“Sorry,” he says, letting his hands drop to his side. They jerk awkwardly, one nearly reaching out to help Patrick up but yanking back at the last second. “Let’s get back to the game. I think Andy broke your streak.”

Patrick’s still staring when Pete turns to face the others, a stiffness in his movements that wasn’t there before. He doesn’t look at Patrick when he sits down on the arm of the chair Andy’s seated in; he doesn’t make a sound as Patrick pulls himself up onto the couch.

“Hey, are you still playing, Patrick? It says your player went offline,” Joe says. Patrick can’t respond. He can’t look away from how Pete’s turned down the one thing that kept them connected, turned down  _ him _ . He can’t keep away from the destructive thoughts begging him to bring that devastation to the surface. 

He can’t feel the presence of anyone around him, trapped in his thoughts like he’s opened his eyes to the emptiness of space. Isolated. Barren. Silent.

Silent, so silent.

Patrick’s greatest fear has always been silence.

He shuts his eyes; he takes a breath.

He feels so desperately alone.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! Again, I feel so bad for taking forever to update and I'll try to do so more often-- though I can't exactly promise anything. You know what might help? Any feedback you want to give! Say whatever you want, whether you loved or hated the chapter. I always adore hearing what you think :)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and have a fantastic day/night!


	12. I'm [not] Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drip
> 
> Drip
> 
>  
> 
> Drip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I'm back with a new chapter that I'm so excited for all of you to read. So, I won't stall with any ramblings. I'll just say that I'm so thankful for everyone who's commented/kudo'd/bookmarked so far. You guys make writing this fic so much more exciting, haha. If you haven't done so, please leave a comment with your thoughts! I'd be eternally grateful :)

It's bigger and emptier in the back room of the bus than Patrick remembers it ever being. The edges of the bed remain out of his reach when he’s seated cross-legged in the middle with no reason to lie back and grip the sheets. The walls don’t seem to close in when he blinks, threatening to trap him in an invented relationship with his best friend. The light is dim and the window is open for once; he has nothing to hide from the cars and buildings they pass. It’s even devoid of sound, every molecule of air free from muffled moans and bitten back cries.

Still, Patrick finds it so impossibly hard to breathe.

He runs his fingers over the acoustic guitar he’d pulled into his lap upon arriving, tossing out an excuse of needing to practice as he retreated from the others. Pete hadn’t tried to call him back. Patrick hates that he expected him to.

Now, though, he can’t bring himself to play even one note and, with how easily Patrick can hear the others laughing in the lounge, he knows they’ll take his silence— his devastating, aching silence, pounding into his mind like a kick drum without a beat— as a reason to bother him with meaningless questions later. He ignores the dread permeating the air and instead presses his fingers harshly into the strings of the guitar. The instrument is horribly out of tune but that doesn’t mean Patrick’s ready to neglect its usefulness quite yet.

Press down. Shut his eyes. Create indents in his fingerprints, changing who he is and how he feels for just a few seconds. Wait for the sting to wear off, like bruises that heal too easily under the warmth of someone else’s remedies, and then begin again.

Music used to be Patrick’s escape and, even now, he itches to tune the guitar and play a piece that hasn’t been invented yet. He wants to lose himself in lyricless notes and meaningless songs but, somehow, he knows this cure won’t last for long. Not when he knows he'll stumble across something he’ll have to share with the band. Not when he knows his wordless songs will be filled with Pete’s voice the following day— Pete’s voice using Patrick’s just like he uses the rest of him. Besides, it’s hard to lose himself in anything when he’s trapped in the silence that fell the moment Pete pulled away, incapable of moving or daring to breathe. 

How is it Pete always finds new ways to steal his breath? 

Patrick presses his fingers to the strings again, harder than before. His thoughts fade for a few blissful seconds.

His situation with Pete, now that he reflects on it, is far too similar to his situation with music. There’s always a breaking point, a realization that he can’t be as good as he likes to imagine he might. It’s an ongoing process of needing to be better and forcing himself to reach the next level. There’s no happy ending— at least not in sight. There are only bleeding fingertips from practicing his instrument for too long; there are only aching throats and lost voices from playing a show with bruises around his neck.

His fingers leave the guitar strings without his noticing, reaching to stroke his throat. The bruises have healed but, maybe, it’s time to place some new ones there again. If Pete will allow it.

Patrick’s hand drops and contracts around the strings once more. If Pete will allow  _ anything _ .

The bus stops moving but Patrick can’t bring himself to stand and leave like he knows he should.

“Hey, I’ll get Patrick.” Pete’s voice carries into the room after a while, concern mingling with the smile Patrick hears in it. “You guys go on ahead.”

A primal fear fills Patrick, one he can’t understand. His heart races and his palms begin to sweat. Come on, this is  _ ridiculous _ . He’s not afraid of being alone with Pete, is he? 

Still, his breath catches in his throat when he realizes he’ll have nowhere to run and even less of a chance to hide.  

Patrick’s hands shake as he tunes the guitar, itching to make it seem as if he’d been doing what he’d said. He can’t be caught having a crisis in here, can he? God knows what Pete would say if he saw the burning red indents in Patrick’s fingers.

The door opens and, though he’s prepared, Patrick jumps.

He doesn’t look up, hands freezing on the guitar and a small sound escaping his throat. “Yeah?”

“Hey.” Pete’s smile still sounds like it’s on his face, even if it’s forced. “We’re here.”

“Cool,” Patrick says, stiff and stilted. “I’ll be right out in—”

“Is everything alright with you?” Pete asks, as impulsive as ever. Patrick’s heart rate doubles as the other man steps inside, closing the door halfway behind him. “We’re friends, right? You know you can talk to me.”

“Of course,” Patrick says too quickly to be genuine. He still won’t meet Pete’s eyes. 

Pete takes too long to answer before sighing and shutting the door completely. “If you’re… Look, I don’t expect you to be, like, heartbroken over what happened earlier but, I mean, if you’re upset that I didn’t… that I didn’t take you up on your offer, I guess, it’s not what you think. It’s—”

“Don’t you think you’d have to know what I’m thinking in order to say that?” Patrick tries to play it off with a soft smile and a glance at Pete’s eyes but something about the way Pete tenses tells him his attempts don’t quite work. He looks back down at the guitar, doing his best to keep from digging the strings into his skin again. “It’s not that. It’s… You don’t have to worry. You didn’t do anything.”

Patrick almost smiles at his own wording. If only Pete knew the problem was exactly that. 

“Okay, but—” Pete bites his lip, swaying back and forth in thought, “ —you know that I’ll worry whether or not I’m involved, right? That’s what friends do, Patrick. They notice that something’s wrong and they take care of it and. And I don’t care who’s fault it is— mine, yours, some asshole I don’t know— I want to  _ fix  _ it. Because something’s obviously wrong and… And I don’t like it.”

Patrick bites his tongue before he can say something outrageous like  _ do you like anything about me anymore _ . Instead, he puts the guitar to the side— grinning at how gentle he’s being with a device he was using as a certain kind of distraction— and faces Pete with a stubborn glare.

“Well, you’re being stupid. There’s nothing wrong. Not with me, at least.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so cold but, strangely, he finds he doesn’t quite care about the way Pete recoils back.

“But—” Pete stops, looking down and tightening his fists. Patrick stares at them for maybe a second too long before Pete’s speaking again, his tone docile with his posture anything but. “Fine. I hope that’s true.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“I… I like to think not.” Pete runs a hand through his hair, sighing in an aggravated way that makes Patrick hate this entire conversation. “We’re at the venue. The other guys already headed in, I think, but I wanted to warn you. It’s near the end of the tour so security says the fans hanging around are… more rambunctious than the rest. They’ve had time to build up a fuckton of energy  _ and  _ recruit their friends into the mob. Which is cool but… I know how you’ve been around crowds recently. How they make you feel. Thought you’d like a warning.” 

It’s so thoughtful that Patrick can’t help but feel sick at the confliction anchoring itself in his gut. Pete's thinking of him? Pete's worrying about how Patrick may react to the crowds or wondering if he should give him some support?

Patrick shuts his eyes for less than a second. More than enough time to remind himself this supposed support has to be fake.

“Thanks,” he says, opening his eyes and standing. His voice is softer than it needs to be, catching in his throat like a muffled sob. It feels like there should be more for him to say— perhaps a reassurance or an argument— but, instead, he merely walks past Pete with the softest shudder when their shoulders brush.

He can’t bring himself to worry about this reaction for long.

Pete follows close behind as they exit the bus, security already waiting outside. Patrick knows the crowd must have been told the rules, have been given boundaries and parameters, but it doesn’t stop the wave of nausea that rolls cruelly over him when he’s fully outside.

“Pete!”

“Patrick!”

“Oh my god, oh my god! Can I get a picture? Can you sign this?”

“I love you!”

“Can I get a hug?’

“Over here!”

His mind kicks into overdrive as the countless people— screaming teens and shouting adults— rush forward as one, yelling his name like they own it in some way. They steal his breath before he has a chance to respond, pressing against the security guards with scowls as Pete and Patrick remain just out of reach. He tries to smile— he might even succeed— but everything is too much and too fast. It’s like that night when Ian approached him, distractions everywhere and faces he’d never recognize in the dark. It’s hard to speak when any stranger could be the next Incident; it’s harder to move when anyone could take control if he loses focuses for just one moment.

It’s all so ridiculously  _ stupid _ .

Patrick forces himself to walk forward, hating how he counts his steps in his mind. 

_ One _ , he thinks.  _ One step closer to the doors. One step away from all of them. Just a few more and I’m safe from these people. _

But  _ these people _ are his fans and Patrick’s face grows hot at the fear coursing through his veins. This— the way he jumps when someone screams his name too loud or how he keeps checking for Pete’s prescence— is more than overwhelming. It’s irrational. It’s ridiculous. It’s embarrassing. How dare he be afraid of those that have come to support him? And how dare he assume anyone would want to try what Ian did?

Still, a boy a bit taller than him makes it past security, a CD gripped tightly in his hand and his eyes glistening in awe. Patrick finds himself stumbling back.

“Hey, I love you,” the boy— the fan— breathes as he shoves the CD case into Patrick’s chest. “Can you, like, sign this? Real quick? I’d be so fucking grateful.”

“Yeah, sure! We’d love to!” Pete’s the one that takes the marker from the kid’s other hand, the one that eases the tension with an easy smile and carefree tone. Patrick copies his motions, hating himself with every second, focusing on the fear rather than the way Pete’s concern saturates his skin each time the bassist glances over. 

“Are you okay?” Pete asks when the boy disappears. It’s a stupid question. Not because it's obvious, though, no; it’s stupid because it shouldn’t have to be asked at all.

“I’m fine.” Patrick means to hiss the words but they sound more like a whisper than anything else. His teeth clamp down on his tongue as quick punishment, releasing before anyone can notice.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid _ . “Let’s just keep going.”

He wants to love the fans— hell, he  _ does  _ love them— but there’s too much going on. Screaming and pushing, yelling and crying… Nothing adds up to the silence in his mind.

It’s chaos but it’s entirely the wrong sort.

Counting his steps, he shuffles forward. He’s barely made it a few feet from the bus, barely proved to anyone, most of all himself, that he’s okay. 

He takes another step, somehow losing count of the ones he’s already done. Nothing adds up; nothing makes sense. How can the world be so piercing and loud when everything inside him— his thoughts, his heart, his breath— is doing its best to remain still? How is any of that fair?

And, he thinks as he smiles at a girl waving frantically at him, it’s not only the fear that’s stopping him from behaving the way they all need. It’s the frustration at his limbs for being so slow. It’s the anger at his heart for daring to pick up its pace when someone stands too close. He’s being an idiot, a scared little child with no reason to hate what’s causing him to flinch. His hands form fists, his fingernails biting into his palm. 

Pete’s hand slides from Patrick’s shoulder to his hands. It’s something Pete’s done a thousand times before and, still, a handful of fans begin to shriek. Patrick’s mouth goes dry at the sound and, as the screams grow in pitch, his vision blurs.

Without thinking, he jerks away from Pete’s touch. The bassist wanted nothing to do with him earlier so he has no right to put on this show for the few fans gathered around. 

Few. Patrick snorts to himself. If that were the case, he’s sure he wouldn’t seem so pathetic. 

With electricity glitching through his veins and heat filling his mind, Patrick grabs onto the sleeve of one of their security guards instead, ignoring the way his knuckles turn white. It's the same way he ignores Pete’s soft sound of hurt, a sound so soft Patrick wonders if he imagined it. Who knows? With how loud the crowd is, growing by the second as passersby show interest in whatever’s going on, anyone could have made the noise.

The thought, though, that anyone could do anything without being identified only causes Patrick’s— irrational, ridiculous,  _ stupid _ — thoughts to multiply. His steps quicken, leaving Pete behind to deal with the fans, and he practically drags the security to the door with him. He smiles when someone shouts his name; he nods when he hears a compliment. But he doesn’t stop— he  _ can’t  _ stop. Not when everything’s so loud; not when everything is so  _ much _ …

He makes it through the door and down the halls, losing the guard sometime in the process. They probably left to check on Pete; they might not have even been there, to begin with. Patrick doesn’t care. Enough signs point him in the right direction. Enough thundering steps down the hallway begin to soften the noise behind him.

When he makes it to the dressing room— someplace small and dusty with disuse but covered with bottled waters and an attempt at snacks all the same— it’s only then that he realizes he’s gasping for air.

What the hell is wrong with him? 

Patrick’s hands find the fabric brushing his chest, clenching it tightly in a painfully cliche move. He sounds like he’s just surfaced from a long dive beneath icy waves; he feels like nails are scraping up and down his throat with each breath.

He’s just like when…

Patrick cuts off his own thoughts, tossing his hands down to his sides in a useless attempt to calm himself. Everything’s just been too much today. It’s been cruel and it’s been chaotic and it’s not fair for things to become this shade of chaos when he’s spent so long dulling those colors into nothing.

He shuts his eyes and lets the blues and violets of desperation fill his vision, hiding any brilliant hue of  _ chaos _ .

Silence. He needs some fucking silence.

But then the door opens and Patrick finds his eyes doing the same. Colors invade his vision like needles, stabbing into his sight with their vibrant desire to exist. Too much. It’s all too much.

“Hey.” It’s Pete. Patrick’s not surprised. “You ran off pretty quickly. Thought it’d be a good idea to check up on you.”

Patrick huffs out a breath. Pete’s voice hasn’t changed from the way it’s always been— filled to the brim with emotion and vibrating with energy. But, just this once, Patrick wishes it could be different. It could be quiet, non-existent. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can make it sound honest.

“Who did?” The words leave Patrick’s lips before he’s even thought them. He turns around, takes in the sight of Pete’s furrowed brows and frowns. Patrick folds his arms across his chest, more to hide the way his hands shake than anything else. 

“What?” Pete asks, stepping closer and letting the door slam shut. Patrick flinches at the sound as it echoes through the small room. He looks away, letting his gaze fall onto a spot above Pete’s shoulder. The wall is beige, a nice shade begging him to be patient. It doesn’t work the way it should. 

“Who thought it would be a good idea to check up on me?” His voice is a wire pulled to the point before snapping. It burns to spit the words out, wincing as they grate across his tongue like knives taking shape in his mouth. Honesty’s always had the worst flavor. “I sure as hell know it wasn’t you.”

The words are in the air before Patrick can call them back, opening doors that should have been locked and whispering  _ truth  _ when Patrick’s been placing all his bets on  _ dare _ . Those words, that hint of fault and vulnerability, loosen a chain around Patrick’s chest and he takes a greedy breath. He means to merely breathe, though, so why does it sound so much like a sob when he allows himself to exhale? What was the chain holding back? What has he led them into?

Pete’s moving now and Patrick can’t look away from his hurt expression. When Pete’s hand wraps around his own, loosening his fist with a gentle touch, Patrick’s lungs begin to burn. Pete’s grip is warm and tight and Patrick shouldn’t want more, not after everything he’s accomplished in pushing that feeling away— not after the way Pete turned him down mere hours ago. Still, Patrick finds his own fingers tightening around Pete’s, a plea he can’t form into words. 

“I know it wasn’t you,” Patrick says again, before any of his other thoughts can escape. “You can’t… Pete, stop pretending. I know you don’t care half as much as you seem so… You can stop.”

Patrick looks down at their hands, locked together like one note sliding into the next. Perhaps the physical contact is what has Patrick’s voice sounding so much fainter than before; maybe the way Pete’s looking at him is what causes him to try to pull away.  _ Try  _ being the operative word. He wants to pull away almost as much as he wants to pull Pete close. Instead, he stays put, gasping at the feeling of Pete’s thumb brushing over his knuckles in gentle—  _ gentle _ , why is he being so gentle? — strokes.

“Yeah, well, you don’t fucking know what you’re talking about,” Pete says, his voice painted in every shade of honesty Patrick's only dreamed of. Pete’s grip tightens. Something inside Patrick begins to crumble. 

Or, maybe, he’s just realizing that a piece of his wall has been slowly fading away. 

He can’t have that.

He can never have that.

Patrick stiffens and lets his hand go slack, Pete's own grip twitching but refusing to let go even as Patrick’s cooperation fades away. 

“I think that you should leave.” Patrick’s eyes flutter shut. There’s a stinging behind his eyelids, a familiar feeling he swore not to feel again. 

_ Not in front of Pete, please. Never in front of him.  _

It doesn’t matter how broken Patrick already sounds. What matters is that Pete can never see how true his suspicions— and he does have suspicions, that much is obvious in the curious way he’s been gazing at Patrick the past few seconds— have become. 

“ _ No _ . You’ve been acting all kinds of wrong lately and… and it’s scaring me. And we’re going to fucking talk about it because,  _ god _ , Patrick. It’s… It’s not right. So talk to me. Tell me what’s going on!” Pete’s voice has all the strength of someone trying to be firm. Patrick might have fallen for it if not for the way it quavered. 

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut tighter as the stinging becomes a persistent pain, something he won’t be able to ignore for long.  _ Please, please, please, no _

And then Pete breathes two more words, desperation filling them like prayers in a church: “Patrick, please.”

And every wall comes down.

“Why should I talk to you when all you’ve done is shut me out? You pretend like we’re best friends and nothing else but it’s the exact opposite and you fucking know it! The friend thing is just a lie so you can keep up the pretense of the PeteAndPatrick you’ve created for everyone else. Everyone but me. You’ve defined every piece of me before I had the chance to figure it out for myself.” He’s rambling, oh god, he knows he’s rambling. Half his words don’t make sense to his own ears, shaky and breathy as he turns away to hide the tears overflowing from his eyes and down his cheeks. Pete can’t see them; he won’t let Pete see them. It doesn’t matter how the sound of his cries coat his words, as long as Pete doesn’t  _ see. _ “I don’t know how to feel when I’m with you and I don’t know who to be. Am I your friend? Am I… Am I just your casual fuck or, am I… Pete, I don’t fucking  _ know  _ so it’s just easier to pretend I do. And, right now, I’m saying that I… I know that there’s no way you can care about anything in this room right now so… so it’s better for us both if you just fucking leave.  _ Please _ .”

Pete’s silent and it’s the worst thing he could be. It only gives more room for Patrick’s hiccuping breaths to grow; it only emphasizes what little thought he’s given their situation.

“Is this…” Pete says, at last, sounding lost and certain all at once. “This isn’t about me turning you down earlier, is it? Patrick, trust me, I  _ want  _ you. You have no idea how much I… But I can’t keep hurting you. I stopped because I can’t keep hurting you.”

“All you ever do is hurt me!” Patrick screams, turning around with red in his vision. It’s too late to care how Pete gawks at the tears streaming down his face, pretending like he’s convinced himself they weren’t real. Patrick’s hands form fists and it takes all he has not to throw one in a fit of irrational violence. “You said it yourself, you ruin people whether you realize it or not and I always,  _ always _ , take the brunt of it. I clean up your fucking messes but, guess what? I can’t clean this up because what you wrecked? Pete?  _ It’s me.” _

And he knows he shouldn’t blame Pete, knows he should focus more on the dampness in Pete’s eyes and the way that he draws back. He knows that he can only blame himself and he’s ready to take it back, he swears. He’s ready to roll over and let Pete feel forgiven again.

But then Pete’s lashing out, too.

“Oh, fuck you,” he snaps, leaning forward with venom dripping from his tongue. “You’re so fucking selfish and you don’t even realize it. You only ever want something when you can’t have it anymore and I’m sick of it.”

The nails on Patrick’s right hand find the soft fingertips of his left, digging in and searching for the feeling of guitar strings against his skin. It’s all he has left, all he can do to keep from throwing a punch at Pete. Or, worse, all he can do to keep from throwing himself at Pete’s feet and begging for forgiveness.

Pete’s shrill voice fills the air as he reaches out for Patrick's wrist. “Stop hurting yourself, dammit!”

Patrick pulls away, his lips curled into a snarl. “The only one who ever hurt me was you.”

Pete pulls back, eyes wide, before he releases a brutal statement of his own.

“It’s not my fucking fault you fell in love with me.”

It’s not something that’s ever been said before, the L-word, this acknowledgment of Patrick’s feelings. It hits him like a hand on his throat, like bruises on his body, like a plea for more pain. 

Patrick used to believe there was a chance Pete loved him, used to pretend he knew all of Pete’s feelings, but he never once convinced himself that Pete might know how he felt. Through all the bruises and desperate sobs, he’d never been so cruel to wonder if Pete could guess how much Patrick loves him.

Because doing so, admitting that Pete’s known all along, would be the same as saying that Pete hasn’t cared enough to change a thing. Every night of pretending their moments together were something more, every morning left alone in his bed, would mean that Pete had known that Patrick would hurt. And he never stopped.

He didn’t stop until the wounds were visible and Patrick’s never felt so used.

_ It’s not my fucking fault you fell in love with me _

How dare he…

“And it’s not my fault that you’re only good for the bruises you leave.” Patrick’s voice is nothing more than a crumbled whisper, a breath begging to be left alone for once. Still, Pete looks as if he’s been struck.

“That’s not true.” It sounds like Pete’s merely talking to himself before stepping forward, shouting in anger. “Take it back! Say that it’s not true!”

“Why?” Patrick asks with a wet laugh. “Scared that you’ll believe it if it stays in the air too long?”

“It’s not true.” Pete’s not denying anything Patrick’s said. “Say that it’s not true.”

Patrick shouldn’t feel as powerful as he does, watching Pete shatter in all the ways Patrick perfected.

“It is true.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s true and you know it and that’s why you’re scared to do anything more.”

“Shut up!” Pete’s storming closer, face red and eyes shimmering with unshed tears. It’s not fair that he can hold his own emotions back for so long. Patrick forces himself to smile.

“You said it yourself, Pete. You said it first.”

“Patrick, I’m warning you—”

“You’ll always ruin people.”

“SHUT UP!” 

The blow hits Patrick across his left cheek, Pete’s fist igniting pain the second it touches his skin. Patrick falls with an undignified cry, collapsing and crumbling in exactly the same way all his walls did. His cheek pulses with the knowledge of what just happened and he stares at Pete in breathless shock. Pete, whose fist is falling to his side. Pete, whose tears are finally letting loose.

Pete, who just hit him.

Someone calls out to them from behind the door, declaring soundcheck in ten minutes. Patrick doesn’t know how much time passes before the person leaves, muttering curses about stupid wannabe rockstars. What he does know, is this is the longest he and Pete have shared a silence.

Slowly, so slowly it’s laughable, Pete’s fist loosens and he reaches out. His eyes are pleading as he reaches for Patrick, silently offering to help him back up.

Patrick slaps his hand to the side, shaking his head as he stands on his own and wincing when the action causes the side of his face to light up with pain. Pete hadn’t held back, hadn’t shown restraint when he’d hit him.

Is this what Patrick’s been searching for?

“I’m sorry,” Pete says, his voice— desperate for forgiveness, desperate for understanding, sounding every way it shouldn’t— breaks Patrick from his relentless thoughts. “I didn’t mean to.”

He didn’t mean to. 

Patrick smiles at the ground, a twisted expression.

He didn’t mean to.

He didn’t mean for any of this, neither of them did. Yet, here they are all the same.

He didn’t mean to? 

That doesn’t fucking matter anymore.

“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick says, shoving past Pete and heading for the door. “It’s the nicest thing you’ve done for me all day.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Everything else passes in the same way a breath passes lips trapped beneath water. It’s terribly silent, a muffled scream that no one thinks to listen for. It’s painful and tragic as limbs move too slow to do any good, held back by the icy waves of desperation. It controls where Patrick goes; it dictates what he does.

He can’t help but think of the faucet he’d seen in his mind in a time that feels longer ago than it is. He can’t help but picture the way the  _ drip drip drip _ has overflowed. Each time he gasps for air— thoughts rushing over him with the cruelty of the ocean— all he sees are the waves taking the place the faucet used to be. Like Alice crying herself a sea, he’s adrift in the emotions he tried so hard to lock away.

It’s like a breath escaping into water.

It’s terrible.

It’s painful.

And it’s impossible to notice.

The show starts an hour or so later, Patrick’s guitar held tightly in one hand as he passes the ice pack back to the roadie who’d taken a good look at his face and handed it to him. Cold water drips down his cheek, a contrast to the hot tears still burning behind his eyes. Joe and Andy toss their worried looks his way, an expression that hasn’t left since he’d made up a story of Pete accidentally tossing his bass at him again. They hadn’t questioned the excuse as it was stammered out; after all, it’s something Pete’s done before. But it hadn’t stopped their fawning or overprotection. It hadn’t stopped Joe from suspiciously eyeing the perfectly secured strap over Pete’s shoulder.

It hadn’t stopped Pete from biting back all his apologies after the first syllable, leaving Patrick to watch the agonized words retreat into his eyes.

Patrick wipes the wetness from his cheek, a rough action that calls pain back into his skin. It’s enough to make the others look away, though; it’s enough to make Pete move a bit closer to the stage.

Fans scream in exactly the same way they had outside. The band's not on yet but Patrick can still feel their eyes. The throbbing in his cheek increases. He wonders what stories they’ll make up for him this time.

“Guys, you’re on soon,” someone says, untangling some wires wrapped around his neck. He nods towards the stage and dimming lights but Patrick can't look away from the loosening cords around the man's throat. 

He shuts his eyes when it becomes too much, when his thoughts threaten to run off the rails. Just one second of peace. One moment of calm. One breath unburdened by the ruthless stinging behind his eyes or on his cheek.

One second.

“Now,” the man says.

Even that is too much to ask for.

Patrick opens his eyes and follows the others on stage, everything automatic as he goes through the motions of pretending he's okay. Fans shout for them— for him, Pete used to say— and he has one moment— one second, one breath— of guilt. They deserve more than a faked performance or disingenuous smile between songs. He owes them so much more than he can give.

The story of his life, right?

Wrong. His life goes a bit more like this:

He’s on a stage. He’s pretending to be a singer with it all figured out. He’s playing the part of a showman, playing the part of a celebrity in the making. He’s playing the part of someone unaffected by the number of eyes on the swollen redness stretching across his cheek, even with the brim of his hat pulled low enough to cast it into shadows. He’s playing the part of Pete’s best friend when the bassist comes close. 

And he does come close.

Patrick’s not the only one acting tonight, it seems, as Pete goes through the same antics he always does, smirking at the crowd and singing along. He comes up to Patrick, rests his head against him as he always does. 

Patrick’s supposed to leave him be or push him away; it’s always one or the other. Tonight, though, Patrick allows himself to break character. Just once.

He pulls back from the microphone, taking a deep breath as he does. Pete’s head lifts and his eyes are so close, too close.

Patrick reaches and lifts the brim of his hat up. He knows by the look on Pete’s face that the wound painting the area beneath his eye is bright and obvious. Just like his bruises always are.

Pete moves back to his side of the stage and doesn’t come near Patrick for the rest of the night. He’s always been such a horrible actor.

Everything that comes after is easy.

The show ends with screams and Pete working the crowd, waist-deep in hands aching to touch any piece of him they can. Patrick can’t bring himself to watch for long; he understands that feeling too well.

It’s easy to rush off the stage, the pain of the hit— Pete’s hit— still throbbing when he shoves his glasses on. It’s easy to wait for the others, a cool water bottle pressed into his hand by a stranger. It’s easy to rest it on his cheek, to realize there’s a reason this is the one bruise he doesn’t want to ache.

It’s not so easy to turn away from Pete when he rushes up, soaked in sweat and still stinking of guilt. It’s never easy to ignore his pleading tone when he says, “Patrick, please, just talk to me.”

It’s not easy but Patrick does it anyway.

He makes it as far as the lot where the buses are parked— fenced off by security after his anxiety issues earlier, how  _ embarrassing _ — when someone finally catches up to him. A hand lands on his shoulder; a voice says his name. It’s not much but Patrick already wants it all to  _ stop _ .

“What?” He asks breathlessly as he turns around, all his energy spent. Joe’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second and his hand falls from Patrick’s shoulder.

“Just checking up on you,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging. “You know, um, Pete seems to feel really bad about hurting you.”

If he’s asking about the situation, implying that there’s something more to tell, Patrick refuses to give in.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, looking away. “He doesn’t need to. He knows it’s not the first time it’s happened.”

Joe’s takes a breath as if he wants to argue but thinks better and shakes his head instead. Patrick almost envies the ease with which he controls himself.

“I guess,” Joe says with a smile probably meant to be reassuring. “So, you got any plans for the night?”

Patrick takes a step back, recognizing that tone of voice with a frown. “I mean, no. I was planning on getting some ice for my face and working on some songs. I’m almost done with one so, whatever you have planned, Joe, I swear to god—”

“Look, the tour’s almost over and you haven’t done anything fun since it started,” Joe interrupts, taking on a chiding tone. Patrick groans and hides his face in his hands. He  _ knew  _ this was coming… “And, I mean, you don’t typically go out and party but, dude, you could probably set a record for most consecutive hours spent in a bus on this tour. Like a few days ago? When everyone else went bowling and you stayed on the freaking bus all night? That’s a new antisocial low. Even for you.”

Okay, not fair, Patrick thinks. He wasn’t being antisocial. It’s just that every time they go anywhere remotely public recently, Pete gets all the wrong kinds of attention. Flirtation, attraction, lust, romance… Patrick was just taking himself out of the situation before it could happen. Minimizing the damage.

And it’s not like he was  _ wrong _ . Joe had teased Pete about a girl he’d, apparently, been showing off to for a better part of the day. It made Patrick sick but, since he wasn’t there, he didn’t have to see it. He considers that a victory.  _ Not _ something that should be treated as a crime.

“Joe,” he says, “I appreciate your, uh, attention to my daily activities but I’m not in the mood to go out tonight. Or, like, any night. And if Pete put you up to this then—”

“No one put me up to this,” Joe says in the long-suffering tone only Joe can pull off so many times in one conversation. “Look. Some fans said they’re having a party a few blocks away. We checked the address and it seems legit. The safe kind of legit. Buses aren’t rolling out for a few hours, you should be fine to join us for a while. Live a little, you nerd.”

Patrick’s refusal rests on the tip of his tongue, waiting for permission to put an end to this absurd request. He needs to go on vocal rest to prepare for the last few shows and he needs to ice his bruise before it becomes too visible. He needs to hide away from the world for a bit. He needs just one second to convince himself he’s okay.

The venue doors open once more. And Pete and Andy walk out.

There are a group of girls with them, some fans Patrick remembers winning some contest to be shown around backstage. He’s not sure they were supposed to hang out for so long but there’s not really anything he can do now. Pete already has one hanging onto his arm and Andy seems deep in conversation with the others. Someone tells a joke and Pete laughs, loud but lacking the emotion it usually carries. His eyes are the same way; his smile is even worse.

Patrick’s teeth grit together. How long is he going to pretend to feel so bad? Patrick understood the guilt at first, the way Pete recoiled away from the sight of the bruise he created. It’s the same way they always react to getting into it with each other— guilt and shame, followed by jokes at each other’s expense. Fights and their ensuing hurt only ever last a few hours. 

So why is Pete so determined on dragging this one out?

“Patrick?” Joe calls, waving his hands dramatically in front of the other’s face. “Dude, I promise that no one put me up to this. It’s not like some elaborate prank, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Pete has the gall to look around with saddened eyes, all the while entertaining meaningless girls and boys that Patrick will envy for hours after? He has the guts to exclaim that Patrick loves him only to openly flirt with anyone and everyone as soon as he gets the chance? Patrick can feel himself going mad from the torture of it all. His cheek may throb from the pain Pete physically inflicted but nothing can match this knife in his chest— piercing his lungs, his heart. He wants nothing more than to curl up in his bunk and drown in his own sobs, choke on the waves of raw emotion that have been let loose. He wants, oh, how he wants… He wants to wallow in his own self-pity and then drag himself to Pete’s bunk the second he returns.

He wants to do everything he knows he shouldn’t. So, instead, he does what he knows he needs.

“You know what? Sure,” Patrick says, grinning at Joe in a way he hopes is convincing. He’s not sure if it works but Joe smiles back all the same. “I need a distraction from everything that’s going on.”

He needs to start acting like Pete. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is! Let me know what you think, please! I adore any comment I get and do my best to reply to each of them.
> 
> Or, head on over to my tumblr (@hum-my-name) and we can talk there! You're all so cool, I'd love to get to know you better :) Have a wonderful day/night!


	13. [ ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well this is... something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this isn't a stall or something to put out just so I can feel fulfilled in updating before it gets too late to be acceptable... Though those are, admittedly, things I would do. So. Let's pretend I'm more professional than that.
> 
> Seriously, though. I started writing the next chapter and, I mean, I'm done with the first version of it but... look. Posting it didn't feel right. It's long and it's, in my opinion as the author, dramatic and so I-- the most fucking pretentious person I know-- decided to toss this think-piece in here to, hopefully, heighten tension. So. Here it is, I guess. 
> 
> (I just got out of finals week. Forgive the weird spacey tone in this note)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy and leave a comment with your thoughts! I always love hearing from you :)
> 
> On with the story!

[ ]

 

The thing about playing pretend is that it only works if someone else is in on the joke.

Patrick loves acting, had even taken a few classes once or twice when he’d gotten bored. Community classes in a spare room of the senior center during summer break back in high school, classes that smelled like styrofoam and cardboard because it wasn’t like it was an official thing with tidy classrooms. It wasn’t like anyone cared about the students— Aged 12-22! like the faded flyer had greedily demanded— filling their otherwise empty days with an over-enthusiastic theatre— or theater, Patrick never learned the difference— professor from a local college. Mr. Noslho, a strange name with a loud beginning and breathy end. Patrick still has nightmares of that man, his buzzcut hair and oversized sunglasses and the way he had the class practice their breathing techniques by saying his name at different volumes.

NosLHO! NOSlho…

Patrick dropped out after the third class. Hey, it’s not like he was paying for it. It was a drop-in class and the worst he got were a few angry texts from the duo he’d stranded for their three-person performance project.

But one thing did stick out to Patrick. One of those strange memories-- the kind that tasted too strongly of nostalgia-- pressed against the back of his throat as he waited in the back of a taxi Joe had somehow managed to wave down. One thing played in his mind as his breath fogged against the window, his head bobbing against the glass' gentle rumble as he rested against it.

The thing about acting— about playing pretend, about becoming anyone other than who you are— is that it only works if someone else is in on the joke.

Not to say that acting is ever a joke but Patrick understood Noslho’s meaning well-enough. Playing a part is the same as playing a prank or practical joke. You want to fool someone enough that, in the end, they’re speechless at what had happened. You need to set the stage, where a mask, and laugh at all the parts your character does. Forsake your  _ true  _ identity in order to scheme against the world in a new one, but only where it until the joke is over.

And always let someone in on the joke.

A partner-in-crime. A confidante. Someone who knows the real you but will let you get away with being someone else.

Not necessarily a friend, no. Friends are liable to laughing too soon or tossing you under the bus. Friends are the ones who would sooner point out the way you played yourself rather than revel in how meticulous your planning was. Friends can be trusted, yes, in the planning and creation. But you can never trust them once the joke has begun.

No.

A partner-in-crime. A confidante. Someone who sees you pretending but never took the time to watch you put the costume on.

More often than not, it's an acquaintance in the crowd— a bystander as the jokes go on. It’s someone who knows only the shallowest levels to who you are, someone who never dared to go any deeper and can only describe you with five adjectives— four if you’re lucky. It’s someone who didn’t acknowledge you were going to be on that stage or playing that prank. They didn’t realize it was your name on the marquee but they entered anyway. And maybe they'd usually recognize you as someone kind but watch you play the most sadistic character alive. Perhaps they expect you to be smart but widen their eyes when you prove just how foolish you can really seem.

It’s better to have someone in the joke because, then, you have someone to impress. A person who doesn’t know you in the slightest will never realize how much you’ve changed yourself, how easily you’ve painted a smile over the frown only a few would rather see. It’s better to have someone in on the joke because, then, your efforts will have paid off. What's the point of being a clown if no one knows why they're laughing?

If you’re really lucky-- if you do well in rehearsals and smile at the right people-- it could even be someone else onstage, another actor sharing knowing looks about how heavy the mask is getting or how easily the makeup wears off. Someone who can whisper your lines when you forget or someone who will be forced to take just as much blame as you when the joke falls flat. Someone who can lighten the load with simple quips and steal the light when it begins to blind you. Someone who understands the way you rush offstage, grasping for the script because you’ve both forgotten your lines before and, somehow, it’s more endearing when it’s at the same time.

But the thing about playing pretend— the thing about having someone in on the joke— is that it only works when you’re on a stage.

Patrick’s only ever on a stage; it’s something he could easily reduce his life to. Bus, hotel, stage, and back again; it’s a third of what his life has become. And, for a third of his life, he can play any part he wants and rest easy in the fact that maybe the crew is in on the reason he plays along with Pete’s antics. Maybe someone in the audience, a fan he spoke to, will be impressed by the confidence his voice seems to express. Hell, maybe Joe or Andy or even  _ Pete  _ can share a glance with him and say “great job, tonight! You even fooled me for a bit!” 

Maybe. 

But life isn’t all a stage, to hell with Shakespeare.

It’s reality and playing pretend is for children and those who’ve made it their profession. It’s not for Patrick to slap a cocky grin on his lips and a crooked hat on his head with the silly notion that he wants to be Pete. It’s not for Patrick to act like the bruise on his face doesn’t exist or that the pain he feels is making anything better. It’s not for him, simple as that.

The thing about Patrick, though, is that he doesn’t give a damn.

Joe glances over at him, pausing his conversation with the driver to send a worried glance his way when Patrick’s hands form fists in his lap. Patrick’s phone buzzes— probably Pete but, also, probably not— for the eleventh time since the drive began. The car stops and, through the window, Patrick can see people spilling in and out of a house too small for such a scenario. He can even recognize a few fans from their show.

There are more than enough people in on his joke. 

<><><> <><><> <><><>

(The thing about playing pretend is this)

Joe leads him out of the car, waving at the few fans who recognize them and start to excitedly slap their friends’ arms in an awed wonder of such rock stars emerging from such a mundane vehicle. He’s silent but smiling as they slowly start to crowd around, his hands in his pocket to hide how they shake. 

“Can we get a picture? Can we pose for it?” A fan asks, clutching her phone tightly in her hand.

Patrick grins and the sudden edges dig into his skin.

“Of course,” he says, tossing an arm over her shoulders as she passes her phone off to a friend. “I’ll play along with whatever anyone wants.”

[ ][ ][ ][ ][ ]

 

The thing about playing pretend is this…

                                 ...Patrick is so much better at it than anyone realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I hope this makes sense...
> 
> Anyway! I'm done with this semester so I assure you I will be doing my best to update this! I've actually started outlining the fics that are coming after and I am so excited, guys, you have no idea. They're gonna be so fun.
> 
> Also, I'm not leaving you hanging on this for long. Like I said, the next (real) chapter is already written-- I just need to edit the heck out of it and make sure it looks good before posting! It will be soon, in a few days I think. See you then!
> 
> Again, please let me know what you think and have an awesome day/night :)


	14. You're [not] Doing This To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One of the chapter because the chapter was so freaking long it had to be cut up into two :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the summary. 
> 
> Also, I know I said this would be up sooner but it was so much longer than I anticipated... And the holiday season took up so much time... If I could go back in time and stop myself from lying, I would.
> 
> Anyway, prepare yourself for a rather long update. I had planned on this being one chapter but then more scenes happened and I got carried away and I'm too much of an amateur to be willing to cut out too many scenes I've written. So enjoy the double update!

Patrick doesn’t quite realize how many people are at this party until Joe has to push him through the door. Crowds linger around the front hallway, too busy conversing with each other to make room for the neverending flow into the party. Something Patrick won’t name—  _ anxiety, fear, panic, nerves _ — jumps into his throat but he swallows it down with an easy smile and a glance at the people around him.

Alright. He can do this. Just one night where he doesn’t have to worry about who he is or what he does, right? One night where he does everything he wouldn’t do.

One night where he can do everything Pete would.

Joe stands at his side, the two pressed shoulder to shoulder in the tight space as they work their way further into the house. He glances over at Patrick, an eyebrow raised but a matching smile on his face.

“You doing good, buddy?” He asks. Patrick nods, forcing a laugh from his throat.

“It’s crazy but, yeah, it’s cool,” he says, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling in his gut when too many people pass by, too many voices, too many strangers that could end up just like—

“Hey, look! There’s CJ! You remember? That kid from one of the first shows?” Joe interrupts his thoughts with a hand on his elbow and a tug deeper into the crowd. “Man, you guys spoke for fuckin’ hours. I didn’t even think music could have that many sub-topics but, well. Let’s go say hi.”

Too many people, too many voices, too many strangers and fans and Patrick’s suffocating from the alcohol and drug-flavored air.

“Joe, wait,” he says, pulling his arm free and stopping short. He glances around, breathing deeply as he adjusts his glasses with a nervous laugh. “Wouldn’t it, like, I don’t know, be weird to just randomly walk up to him? Or, like, anybody? We could just hang around for a bit, there’s no need to cause a scene.”

Is that something Pete would say?

Joe’s eyebrows furrow together and his hands find his hips as he stares down at Patrick.

“You’re—  _ you  _ are declining the chance to geek out with another music geek?” 

Patrick shrugs, looking away. The lights are dimmed and shadows dance along the walls at a pace faster than the bodies bouncing about. It’s enough to make his head spin. 

“I just don’t feel up for it, you know? We just got out of a show, man. Give me some time to recharge before jumping into an hour-long conversation.” 

Joe stares at him for a second longer and Patrick hates the doubt in his eyes, the troubled lines around his lips. Patrick’s just playing a part, okay? He doesn’t need anyone to worry about him.

Finally, Joe breaks with a heavy sigh. “Okay, yeah, we both need a drink, anyway. I think the kitchen’s that way. Let’s go.”

Patrick lets out a breath, following Joe as he slips through the partygoers with the ease of someone who’s done it before. Which, Patrick knows, he has. How many times has Patrick stayed back on the bus or in the hotel while the others wandered off to the party of the week? How many times has Joe bragged about the number of beers he drank in one night? How many times has Pete bragged about the number of people he’s kissed?

Patrick shakes the thought from his mind, blinking when Joe calls his name and announces they’ve found 'the good stuff’. A red solo cup finds its way into his hands and Patrick does his best to smile. Joe returns the expression and takes a long drink of his beer, leading Patrick to do the same.

“Watch out! Dude, oh, shit—” Patrick hears the obnoxious shouting far too late as someone knocks into his back— a group of guys tackling each other across the room. He tries to shout out a warning to Joe as he stumbles forward— losing his balance and breath in one fell swoop— but fails to do so in time.

The cup falls from his hands and lands all over Joe’s shirt.

“Oh _ , fuck _ !” Joe shouts, slamming his cup back down on the counter. The beer inside sloshes over the top and over his hand but he doesn’t react as he peels his shirt from his skin. “Shitty, fuck, fuck.”

“I’m so sorry, Joe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Patrick doesn’t know why he’s apologizing when he was pushed as well. He doesn’t know why it matters so much that Joe’s upset.

“No, it’s… it’s fine,” Joe says at last, though his frown says anything but. “This was one of my last clean shirts, though. Stay here. I’m gonna go see if I can find a bathroom or something to clean it up.”

“Okay.” Patrick doesn’t want to agree, doesn’t want to let Joe leave him alone in this crowded place, but he steps to the side anyway and lets the guitarist pass. “Hurry back.”

“Yep.” And, just like that, Joe’s gone.

Just like that, Patrick’s alone and it’s always so much harder to pretend to be anything when he’s alone. 

Isn't there supposed to be someone else in on this act?

Shaking, Patrick reaches down to pick up his cup again, wiping the dampness off on his jeans and smiling when someone offers to fill it up. It’s fine, of course. He’s fine.

So long as Joe hurries back like he said he would.

Patrick sips on his beer, wincing at the flavor. It’s not half as good as Joe had suggested but it’s alcohol all the same and all Patrick can think of is how many times he’s smelled it on Pete’s breath in the seconds before his lips dip away out of reach.

Right. He might need more than just one drink.

When he turns to fill his half-empty cup, though, a young blonde girl takes the chance to cling to his arm.

“Oh, hey! Hi!” Her voice is slurred and her eyes are wide and Patrick truly can’t tell if she’s drunk or high. “You were the one in the band, right? That’s what my friend said. You’re in a band.”

“Um, yeah,” Patrick says, pulling his arm free and trying not to let his smile waver. “I, um, I sing.”

“Cool!” She shouts, causing Patrick to jump back. “That’s so cool, like, wow! Could you show me?”

“I’m…” Patrick laughs nervously and ducks his head. It’s not something Pete would do but the girl keeps inching closer, until her hand finds his chest and her big brown eyes are all he can see. “Sorry, I’m not… I don’t… I’m not comfortable singing, like, in public. Sorry.”

“Aww,” she pouts before smiling in a way that looks more like Pete’s than anything Patrick’s worn so far. “Then how about we go somewhere private?”

Pete probably wouldn’t blush but Patrick does so anyway. “Oh, um, I—”

“Dude, are you hitting on my fucking girlfriend?” 

The guy appears from nowhere— a guy that’s tall and broad and looks every bit the type of guy to yell _ are you hitting on my girlfriend  _ from across the kitchen. All eyes find Patrick and it’s too late to push the girl away.

“Oh, no, I’m. She’s. We were just talking,” he says, removing the girl’s hand from his chest as the guy makes his way over. The other boy’s eyes linger on Patrick’s hand and Patrick steps back, swallowing nervously. “Sorry, I can go.”

“No, maybe you can stay,” the guy says, yanking the girl back harshly. The girl doesn’t say anything about it, though, giggling and wandering off to find her friends. “Tell us what you were all talking about.”

“Nothing,” Patrick says, realizing it’s the wrong answer when the boyfriend’s eyes narrow. “I mean, just. She asked me about my singing, that’s all.” 

“Huh.” The guy smiles, cold and dark and causing Patrick to step back until he hits the counter. People watch but they don’t do anything. A few roll their eyes and leave the room; a few jokingly chant for a fight. But they don’t do anything to help. “You see, I would be more likely to ask about how you got  _ that _ .”

And the boy reaches out to poke at the bruise on Patrick’s face, pushing in until Patrick winces, until a hot pain reignites on his cheek, until shame and fear and anger all collide together in his gut. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, proud of how his voice doesn’t shake. “Just go, man. There’s no point in what you’re doing.”

The boyfriend pulls his hand back, smiling brightly because Patrick made a mistake in showing anger. The guy struck a nerve and people like him don’t let go of insecurities so easily.

“Are you sure? I think the point is that it’s pretty funny, don’t you?” 

He reaches out again and Patrick shuts his eyes, refusing to give a reaction to this asshole’s prodding. He bites his lip and waits for the small pressure of pain.

Seconds pass but it doesn’t come.

“As fun as this looks, I’m gonna have to be the dick that stops it.” 

Patrick’s eyes dart open at the voice.

_ No. No. No. No. No. _

Pete holds the guy’s wrist in his hand, pushing him away from Patrick with a tense grin and a warning tone.

_ Of course. _

“You had your fun,” Pete says, staring challengingly at the guy that’d been messing with Patrick, “now get the fuck away.”

Somehow, the guy listens. Because, it seems, when it comes to Pete, everyone listens.

Why is it, then, when he turns to Patrick, Pete has nothing to say?

Patrick stares at Pete as the people around them start to dissolve away from the scene, awkward air filling the silence between them as burning embarrassment creeps its way up Patrick’s neck. Of course, Pete would be here. He’s always at parties, isn’t that why Patrick came? He was doing what he would expect Pete to do so why is he surprised? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Pete’s eyes are wide and searching as Patrick looks at him, carrying a thousand messages Patrick can’t read but is begging for Pete to say.

Instead, Pete remains silent.

He reaches out, slowly, his eyes locked on Patrick’s as if asking for permission. Patrick can’t speak, can’t form thoughts let alone words as Pete’s hand comes closer. His breaths are quick; his face is hot.

Pete’s hand is inches from Patrick’s face when Patrick remembers why he came. Why he was so desperate to act like Pete.

_ It’s not my fucking fault you fell in love with me _

No.

Pete doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to wander in and save the day and pretend he didn’t say anything. He doesn’t get to stare at Patrick’s bruise and pretend he didn’t  _ do  _ anything. Only one person gets to pretend anything and that person has never been Pete.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Patrick snaps, slapping Pete’s hand down and stepping away from him. “I have nothing to say to you.”

The remark would be more dramatic if he could storm away like he wants but partygoers block all the exits and he ends up stumbling back into Pete. Typical.

Pete steps away when Patrick backs into him, steadying the singer but pulling his hands back as soon as he can. Not wanting to touch him. Also typical.

Patrick turns around, trying to cross his arms but failing when the cup in his hand makes it more awkward than angry. Pete merely sighs.

“Patrick, what the hell are you doing here?” He asks. Patrick scoffs, forcing himself to meet Pete’s eyes no matter how much he wants to look away.

“What? Don’t like me intruding on your scene?” He mocks. Pete’s eyebrows furrow together but Patrick considers his hurt expression a victory. Isn’t that what Pete would always do?

“Don’t be stupid. I’m asking because I’m worried.”

Patrick scoffs. “I don't need you to take care of me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pete taunts. “Says the guy who very nearly got beat up in the kitchen.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick says, narrowing his eyes. “Might I remind you about the last person who actually hit me?”

Pete recoils like Patrick had pushed him, his body tensing at the other’s words. It’s a victory, Patrick tells himself. Pete’s wounded eyes? His dropped jaw? A  _ victory _ .

“Okay, you know what? Fine. Whatever. See you at the bus, asshole,” Pete says, though there’s no heat behind the words. He turns. He starts to walk away.

And Patrick hates how easily his fears take the place Pete’s presence had been filling.

Too many people, too many voices, too many strangers and bystanders who didn’t care as Patrick was getting pushed around and he needs someone here, he needs—

“Wait,” Patrick says, taking rushed steps to catch up with Pete. “I think Joe got lost on his way back here. I’ll… I can hang out with you until he finds us.”

Pete smiles and it looks like he considers it a victory.

Patrick scowls and looks away. “Don’t read into it, the kitchen’s just too crowded.” 

“Sure,” Pete says, beginning to walk again. There’s more pep to his step now, Patrick thinks. He knows Patrick will follow and, sure enough, he does.

He means to keep a respectable distance behind, far enough back for Pete to worry Patrick might have changed his mind and left. Far enough back for Patrick to run off if he needs to, if his senses and dignity ever kick back in.

But then, in the hall, someone too close to Patrick laughs a bit too loud and he jumps forward, the back of Pete’s shirt caught in his hand before he realizes what he’s doing. 

Pete pauses and looks back, a hint of a smile still on his face. It’s enough to have Patrick pulling his hand away with another dark glare.

“Don’t read into it,” he snaps. Pete’s smile falls, though some of it lingers in his eyes.

“Patrick,” he starts, thinking better and trailing off before finishing the sentence. Good, Patrick thinks. Things never end well when Pete starts with his name like that.

Patrick takes a drink of his beer to hide from Pete’s eyes, long and wishing it stung more than it does. When he’s done, he marches ahead of Pete, snapping something about finding a couch. 

He doesn’t look back to see if Pete follows.

He knows that he will. 

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Two minutes later, they find a fancy white couch in the basement. Five minutes later, they both have refilled red solo cups in their hands, liquid dripping down the side like sweat-- or tears, depending on Patrick's mood. 

Seven minutes later, Patrick runs out of angry words to say.

He spat them all at Pete as he pressed the cup into his hands, cursed and insulted and swore he’d be better off left alone. Pete hadn’t reacted other than to roll his eyes or sigh each time Patrick began a new tangent.

“I never should have sucked your fucking dick that night. You’re…  _ You’re  _ a fucking dick!” Patrick had said. Pete had laughed.

“I hate you, I hate you so much, I hate that you make me feel this way, I  _ hate  _ you.” Patrick had sworn, voice shaking as he stared at his hands. Pete had nodded solemnly, as if Patrick’s words were perfectly rational.

“I’m not… I shouldn’t feel like this for you. Not after those fucking things you said. And you shouldn’t have to pretend like you care. Not after what I said,” Patrick had finally muttered, out of steam and running low on rage. Pete hadn’t said anything, just frowned and put an arm over Patrick’s shoulders to pull him close. 

That was one minute ago and, now, Patrick’s words feel meaningless as he lets himself lean into Pete. It’s not like it matters or like he’s seeking comfort; he’s just doing what Pete would do, right? Giving into acts of affection only to admit they mean nothing in the morning? Isn’t this something Pete’s already done, perfected?

Patrick starts planning exactly how to tell Pete, later, about how his arm around him meant nothing. The thought leaves him flinching from his own thoughts but, hey, what necessary action is ever thoroughly enjoyable?

Those around them laugh, more laidback partygoers spread out across the basement, each with a drink in their hand and their eyes fixated on someone else in the room as the kids— kids and fans and strangers— pretend this is every cliche party meant to end with a big cliche kiss. Patrick’s only been down here for a handful of minutes and these kids and fans and strangers are already more lucky in love than him.

Pete and Patrick are the only two in the room not conversing with anyone, the only two without smiles on their faces. Patrick watches Pete and pays attention to the way his body feels against his. Pressed close together, side-to-side on the couch… It’s so different from every other time and, yet, so familiar in every way.

Pete huffs out a breath and Patrick moves with it, the same way Pete’s laughter inadvertently shook against him as he laughed about a video game on the bus. Pete stretches back and Patrick feels each muscle shift, the same way his voice had rumbled into Patrick’s bones when they’d been seated so close in a small diner states away, a melted milkshake placed between them. 

Have they really travelled so far away from that nameless place, that waitress, that shake? Patrick hates the way nostalgia tugs at his chest, reminding him of how it felt to smile when Pete swore they made the drink with love. It’s a good memory. It’s a nice memory.

Until Patrick realizes Pete must have known— must have seen— how Patrick loved him so much, even back then, and decided to test the word out anyway.

Why?

Was it a joke? Was it something Patrick was supposed to catch onto? Was it supposed to mean anything?

For a second, strawberry and chocolate pretend to dance on his tongue. 

Patrick chases it away with another drink of beer, praying the alcohol will work quick. 

Pete looks down at him, an eyebrow raised. Patrick moves Pete’s arm away from him, frowning. Neither of them say anything.

“That guy’s checking you out,” Pete eventually says, nodding towards a corner of the room. Patrick glances over and only really catches sight of brown curls and young eyes, tight jeans and sharp teeth gnawing on a pale lip. 

“I don’t think he is,” Patrick says, feeling as if it’s the first time he’s spoken in months. Pete scoffs.

“Watch. He keeps smiling towards you. I don’t like it.” Pete grows stiff when Patrick looks back over, obvious this time, and his hand twitches as if he doesn’t know whether to hit the singer or grab him.

Patrick ignores Pete’s hostility and focuses on the boy in the corner, someone maybe his age but even more frightened of the world around him. He gets a better look and smiles when he meets the boy’s eyes; he can’t tell what they are from this distance but they’re safe, something light and unfamiliar. The boy pushes his hair out of his face and grins. It’s all soft-edges and fragility. Patrick’s smile grows.

“Dude, stop,” Pete snaps. “You of all people shouldn’t be entertaining strangers. You should know they have the worst intentions.” 

_ Dark alleys, dark eyes. Cruel hands around his throat and screaming for any help he can get. Kicking, fighting, dying—  _

Bile rises in Patrick’s throat but, still, he doesn’t look away. The boy waves; Patrick nods. 

“He’s so fucking obvious,” Pete mumbles. 

Patrick laughs. “I don’t really mind.”

He keeps his eyes on the boy, even when someone shouts an annoyed  _ “Elias, come talk to us!”  _ and he walks away. He follows his movements with his eyes, hopeful but not sure what he’s hoping for.

Before leaving through a doorway, Elias looks back and winks at Patrick. The boy’s face is bright red but Patrick allows his own smile to grow.

_ Isn’t this something Pete would do? _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

There’s something that breaks in the air once Elias leaves, something that has Pete tugging on Patrick’s arm and pleading for attention. It’s annoying and it’s childish. Still, it feels like something Patrick wants to give into.

A hot haze covers Patrick’s vision, a thin film which causes him to squint and try not to laugh at the silly shapes before him. The way everything seems to move in slow motion, the funny tone of his voice… He wants to call it the freedom of realizing options exist outside of Pete but, really, he knows he's probably just drunk.

“Patrick, Patrick, Pa _ trick _ ,” Pete says beside him, popping the ‘P’ in his name with greater intensity each time he says it. “You have not sincerely laughed once since joining the party. That’s breaking the party rules.”

It’s a clear cry for a response— something Patrick’s been refusing since Pete tried to play himself off as jealous or caring— and Patrick smiles into his cup as he takes another drink. Someone had come by— sometime between Elias’ smile and Pete’s attempts for attention— with an untrustworthy bottle of something they swore would ease some grins onto their faces. 

Patrick, of course, had accepted in a heartbeat, downing one cup’s worth and refilling the second up to the brim. The kid— probably some high schooler or young college student, stealing from the parents’ cupboards to gain some friends— hadn’t lied. This drink didn’t have a flavor other than fire and, though it caused him to gag a bit on his first go, Patrick’s thankful it was left next to him and Pete. Though, he doesn’t really count Pete, considering he’s only had half the amount Patrick’s had. Patrick shakes his head softly at the thought. Weak. Who’s the better Pete now?

More alcohol slides down his throat, burning in every way he wished. One drink for each memory the sensation brings; one sly smile for each sentence of Pete’s he ignores.

Memories. Pete. They’re too connected for his smile to be genuine.

He remembers the smell of alcohol on Pete’s clothes each time he came back from another affair. He remembers how the bassist would giggle while stripping Patrick of his own clothing, two pairs of hands fumbling for two different reasons. He remembers watching Pete wake up each morning after, hungover but satisfied as he patted Patrick on the arm with a joke of how they should do it again sometime. He remembers the empty feeling in his gut whenever Pete made it a  _ joke _ .

He remembers promising himself he’d act more like Pete.

His cup's halfway empty and he can’t remember how long he’s had his lips against it. Not like it matters, though. Might as well finish it while it’s here.

But then the drink is plucked from his hand. Patrick’s jaw drops and he turns to glare at Pete’s ability to interrupt his reveries.

“You’re a few cups away from me having to tell you that you’re drinking too much so I’m just gonna cut you off now,” Pete says. There’s no joking tone in his voice but Patrick pretends there is anyway.

“Hey, dude, not cool. Give it… Give it back!” He reaches over Pete, deja vu and memories hitting him as Pete holds the cup just out of his reach, a smile finally working its way onto the dark-haired man’s face. 

Patrick’s inches from grabbing it when, in a moment of desperation, Pete puts the cup to his lips and downs the rest of Patrick’s drink.

Patrick gapes at him, frozen in place with shock coloring his features. “So not cool.”

Pete shrugs, his eyes falling somewhere else in the room. 

Patrick takes his shot at revenge the second he can, reaching out and snatching Pete’s cup from the table before them and, just like Pete, finishes it one go— the other’s wide-eyed stare on him the entire time.

“There,” he says, tossing the emptied cup to the floor. “Now, we’re even.”

Pete blinks at him, their eyes meeting for not the first time that night but the longest time. “So not cool.”

One second, two. 

Three seconds pass before the boys burst out into a round of meaningless and boisterous giggles. The feeling bubbles up in Patrick’s chest, exploding from his laugh in a smile twisting across his face. Does it match Pete’s? Or is it something new entirely?

When Pete smiles back, doubling over in annoying guffaws, Patrick finds it doesn’t quite matter. Sure, something feels off about this situtation— it’s still a bit stilted, a tiny bit forced and every bit awkward— but none of that overweighs just how  _ right  _ it feels to sit with Pete and smile at nothing together. Is it proof his plan is working? Proof he’s best as Pete’s best friend? He’s been blaming all his thoughts on the bits of alcohol he’s had tonight but he’s not so sure he wants to do so anymore.

Still, he reaches for his cup— clasped in Pete’s hand— with a small whine.

“Lemme have mine back,” he says. “I can still see some left. You didn’t finish it.”

“I didn’t?” Pete looks up with a sparkle in his eye— still muted when it brushes over Patrick’s bruise but causing sharp gasps in Patrick’s breath all the same. He glances at the cup and back at Patrick, some wild idea shaping his lips into a smirk. “Then you do it.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol that makes him so compliant; maybe it’s the familiarty between them. Whatever it is, Patrick sits still as Pete pushes his hand down— gently, gently, gently— and brings the cup up to Patrick’s lips himself.

“Drink it,” he mutters, the fact that Patrick can hear proving how close he’s gotten. “Come on… Do it.”

Patrick does. The alcohol races through his parted lips and down his throat, his head tipping back to help ease the flow. Pete’s arm lifts with him, sending each drop his way.

And Patrick doesn’t break eye contact with him once.

What… What is this? Some game? Some new form of playing? No. It can’t be. Not with the heated feeling in Patrick’s cheeks when Pete’s breath hitches at the sight of him. Not with the way he wants to smirk at Pete’s eyes— on him, so intense Patrick fears he may burn before he swallows the last drop. 

Not with the way Patrick forgets himself for one moment, falling back into his role of  _ Patrick Stump, best friend and favorite secret _ when Pete finally pulls the cup away. Patrick smiles and waits for a sign of approval.

“Damn,” Pete breathes, reaching to wipe away the dampness still clinging to Patrick’s lower lip. His thumb lingers, a featherlight touch against the one place of Patrick’s body he never wanted to claim before. Patrick holds his breath and forgets the irony as Pete meets his eyes and uses his most solemn tone yet. “I could kiss you.”

Patrick doesn’t think because if he thinks, he’ll feel. He’ll wonder about why Pete’s saying this now, after the horrible fight they  had. He’ll give excuses to himself about Pete’s pity and guilt over the blue marks on his body. He’ll find every reason not to believe it or, worse, he’ll find every reason to give in.

Patrick doesn’t think. He smiles— the way one would at a child— and says the first thing to come to his mind. “You’re drunk… I’m drunk.”

He speaks like those words mean anything, like they aren’t the excuses he would eventually find. 

Pete shakes his head, leaning in closer and dragging his thumb back and forth across Patrick’s lip in soft, tender movements. “I’m not just drunk. I kind of really want to kiss you.”

Patrick laughs but it escapes more as a breath, too scared to break the moment they’ve created. 

He told himself not to think but he does so anyway. His mind jumps into overdrive and makes the decision to over-analyze and overthink the situation. He wonders about how drunk Pete is, how drunk  _ he  _ is, and how much this will matter in the morning. He pairs it up, side-by-side like a professional analyst searching for fingerprints, against the words screamed at each other before the show tonight. He thinks of how Pete shied away during the performance.

He wonders if the acting then ever ended.

Still. Patrick only says the first thing to come to his mind.

“I might put that in a song someday.” It’s stupid but it buys him time to find out how genuine Pete’s trying to be.

“A lyric just for me?” Pete smiles and an old papercut wound— so small in comparison to everything that’s happened between then and now— aches somewhere in Patrick’s heart.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, dropping a grin he hadn’t known he was wearing. “You only get one.”

Pete’s thumb presses in harder against Patrick’s lip but he nods all the same.

“Fair enough,” he says. “What would you do if I kissed you?”

Something about its bluntness makes Patrick believe it more; something about its timing makes him fear for his life.

“Hi.” Another voice saves him. Someone young, someone excited, someone as nervous as Patrick feels. “I’m Elias.”

Patrick turns and remembers why he’s here.

“Oh!” He says. Give a smile. Try some charm. Show off Pete’s brand of brave. “Hey!”

The guy before him—  _ Elias—  _ seems meek, shifting about with a hopeful light in his eyes. It’s cute and endearing, the way a puppy begging for food always manages to win a smile from someone. He bites at his bottom lip, smiling at Patrick but losing it just as instantly as he’d arrived.

“I’m— I’m sorry, I just.” Elias pauses, face flooding a lovely shade of pink. “I don’t mean to interrupt. Are you two a couple?”

Patrick physically recoils away from the question. 

“What? Why would— We’re just— Why?  _ Oh _ .” 

Of course. 

Pete’s thumb is still somehow attached to his lip. If Patrick weren’t trying so hard to prove he didn’t care, he’d glare at the bassist and maybe curse. As it is, he simply pushes Pete’s hand down and replies with a happy “nope!”

Elias smiles, relieved, and nods. “Cool.”

Patrick nods back. “Cool.” He reaches for a drink only to remember how empty his cup is— and how the emptiness happened. His gaze drifts towards Pete without his permission and he snatches it back before he can fully understand the details screaming tension and possession.

Elias sits on the edge of the table before Patrick, appearing perfectly awkward but playing it off in a way that makes Patrick grin. Elias’ smile is nice, Patrick thinks. He doesn’t have to worry about its meaning.

“So, like. My friend told me you were the singer in the band we saw tonight and, like, that’s so cool. I hope you don’t mind me being a bit starstruck,” Elias says, wringing his hands together in his lap. “Really, I just. Wow. I loved the show.”

A fan.

A bright-eyed, blushing, stammering fan.

Perfect.

“Aw, thanks,” Patrick says. Something bitter fills the back of his throat but the amount of alcohol buzzing through his system helps him forget what it is. “It’s always awesome to hear from people who enjoy the show.”

_ Is it a bit too forward to say that your… _

“Oh!” Elias exclaims, perking up at Patrick’s response and smiling even brighter. “Well, then, I’m glad!”

Patrick laughs, only a hint of something harsh and dark lingering in his thoughts.

“It’s just that I’m such a big fan of music,” Elias continues. “I’m always looking into whatever show I can get into and your band was really awesome tonight. I didn’t expect to have my mind blown when I stepped into the venue! I especially loved the song with…”

Patrick tunes him out, feeling only slightly guilty at the action. Elias’ voice is a refreshing kind of overexcited, a pleasant change to the handful of people Patrick gets to speak to on tour. He rambles on about lyrics and guitar types, gesturing with his hands when words won’t do his passion justice, and gaining all kinds of smiles from Patrick.

The attention, too, is nice. It’s easy to give into each compliment for his voice with Pete sitting so close beside him. It’s easy to ignore the irrational fears knocking around in his mind with Pete’s breath against his cheek. It’s easy to remind himself to be just like the bassist with Pete’s fingers digging into Patrick’s thigh. Possessive, jealous. The darker version of what Patrick imagines he should have been when he realized Pete wasn’t his to keep. 

Elias says something about falling in love with Patrick’s voice; Patrick puts on his best smirk, feeling foolish but loving the stars in the boy’s eyes, and says he loves Elias’ excitement. Pete’s grip on him tightens, causing Patrick to bite back a yelp when Pete’s fingers threaten to create bruises through Patrick’s jeans. Patrick jerks a bit in his seat but doesn’t do anything to loosen the hold. For a second, his hand twitches with the need to shove Pete away but that’s what  _ Patrick  _ would do. His first instinct is always going to be the wrong one because, so far, all his instincts have led him here.

Besides, isn’t this what Pete always does? Ignore Patrick’s touches— and presence— when there’s a pretty fan hanging around? Wouldn't Pete rather pretend he doesn’t exist rather than embarrass himself in front of his next lover?

Of course, it has nothing to do with how much Patrick may or may not enjoy the touch. 

“Anyway, so, like, if we could just talk some more sometime, I’d really like that,” Elias says, finishing his rant. “I mean, if you were interested, of course.”

“Yeah, I’m interested in talking to you whenever!” Patrick leans forward, so far out of his comfort zone he can’t see it anymore. He knows what Pete would say; he knows what statement would have him running back to the bus with stinging eyes and aching rejection. Still, it doesn’t mean he knows how it will sound coming from his lips. He doesn’t know how inexperienced or unacceptable or wrong it will be coming from him. Still, he has no choice but to follow the script he’s written for himself. “But I’m also totally intrigued by that wink you gave me earlier.”

Elias goes red; he stammers and looks away. Patrick knows the feeling and he almost feels bad for putting the poor boy through it.

“Hey, Patrick,” Pete says, the first words he’s spoken since Elias’ arrival. His voice is off, fake and loud and obnoxious. “Your voice sounds sore from all that awesome singing you did tonight. Don’t you want a drink?”

Pete, ever the expert at how fans can be, doesn’t need to finish his sentence before Elias is jumping up and wiping his hands off on his jeans.

“I’ll get it!” He says, excited as ever. “Be— Be right back.”

He turns and rushes through the crowd, pushing and dodging the people blocking his way. Patrick has no doubts he’ll be as fast as he possibly can.

“You didn’t need to send him away,” Patrick snaps, finally turning to look at Pete. Pete, who’s gritting his teeth and staring at nothing. It’s as he expected; it’s as he hoped. “I was liking talking to him.”

“Yeah,” Pete snorts, lifting his hand from Patrick’s leg and folding his arms across his chest. “I could tell.”

Patrick expected Pete’s response— wanted it the way he wants to leave the party already— but something about Pete’s tone still sparks an anger in Patrick’s chest, a leftover from the fight they never really finished.

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick mutters. “You could have any of the people here. Let me enjoy the one person who cares enough to show me attention.”

Pete’s eyes slide over to land on Patrick, disbelieving and exasperated. “Please don’t tell me that’s what you think this is about.”

It isn’t, but Patrick’s not going to admit that any time soon. Not when there are so many other confessions to be had.

“Isn’t it?” Patrick asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Tell me, what do  _ you  _ think you’re so upset about, Pete?”

“Your safety.” The answer comes too quickly to be true.

“What the hell does an innocent flirtation have to do with my safety?” 

_ Dark alleys, harsh hands. Lips on his and the struggle to breathe through the constriction around his throat. _

“You should know that better than anyone,” Pete says, wearisome. “Don’t make me say it.”

“No one makes you do anything,” Patrick mumbles, falling back against the couch with a sigh. 

_ Dark alleys, heartless words. Pete running to his rescue and Patrick sobbing because it already felt like it was too late. _

Why did he have to bring that up?

Pete laughs, an ugly sound. “Yeah, you would think that but, well. Whatever.”

A change in subject. Patrick grasps for it like a life preserver.

“What the hell does that mean?” If his tone is angrier than it should be, it’s just because it’s the only way to drown out his thoughts. It’s the only way to make sure Pete doesn’t say something cruel; it’s the only way to keep Patrick from whispering for help escaping his fears. “Can you ever just be straightforward with me for once?”

“I don’t think that would work with you,” Pete snaps, glancing over at Patrick with fire in his eyes. “Trust me. Besides, there’s nothing to be straightforward about anymore. All of that happened before the show, remember?”

_It's not my fucking fault you fell in love with me_

A lump tries to form in Patrick’s throat but he swallows it down. Not now. Not again.

“Do you try to make me feel as shitty as possible or does it just come naturally?” His voice isn’t as broken as he feels but he can’t consider anything a victory anymore. Not with Pete looking at him like  _ that _ .

A long silence extends between them, filled only by the sounds of the party outside their bubble.

“Naturally, I guess,” Pete says at last, standing with abrupt movements. “Have fun with your new date.”

“Wait!” Patrick has to fight all the instincts urging him to stand, to grab Pete’s wrist and make him stay. “Where are you going?”

“To have my pick from anyone else here,” Pete says, his words like acid. He stares at Patrick like he’s trying to read an ancient code before finally sighing and pasting a scowl on his face. “Be careful with whatever drink Elias gives you. It'd be so hard to hear any screams during this party.”

The words hit Patrick like a blow and he’s still reeling from it when Pete disappears into the crowd, every implication within them leaving him gasping. He’s still trying to find his thoughts and words when Elias shows up, an overfilled cup of room temperature beer in his hand. Patrick takes it greedily, swallowing it down in messy gulps and not caring when Elias takes the place Pete had been in.

“Everything okay?” He asks when Patrick slams the cup back down on the table, empty in less than a minute. Elias’ gaze isn’t judgemental, though, and Patrick clings to it with all he has. 

“Yeah,” he says, breathing hard as he turns his gaze— a gaze that can’t focus, a gaze that’s slipping through a fog and begging for just one thing to stick to— onto the boy before him. “So. About that wink?”

_ Think like Pete _

Elias looks down, smiling sheepishly. It’s pure in a way Patrick’s jealous of and his hand ends up on Elias’ knee, as if he can leech any of that innocence away from him. Elias starts at the action but then looks up to Patrick with a livelier smile than before.

“I hope it wasn’t too much. I just. You seem so cool and… and I thought it was worth a shot to see if….” He trails off, letting a hand fall over Patrick’s to play with his fingers.

“See if what?”

_ Act like Pete _

Patrick’s eyes find Elias’ — a blue like a summer’s sky— and don’t let go. He holds onto his breath, waiting for an answer, before realizing he’s not the one with a reason to be afraid. He lets out his breath the same second Elias takes one in.

“See if…” his voice is hushed, nervous but prepared. This is too fast for Patrick, way too fast for the boy before him. They’d only just met and more than half of their last conversation was Elias fawning over him. Still, Patrick doesn’t put a stop to anything. “See if someone like you would be into someone like me.”

“Oh?” Patrick’s smile is coy; his tone is playful. It's not what this boy needs. Elias needs someone so much kinder, so much softer, so much  _ better _ . “In what way?” 

Elias merely bites his lip and bats his eyes, long eyelashes fluttering against soft cheeks. Patrick swallows thickly.

“I think you know,” Elias says. “Stars like you don’t talk to fans like me for any other reason.”

He’s wrong, oh, he’s so wrong and Patrick wants nothing more than to tell him. He wants to tell him they can talk about music or plan a time to go get a milkshake together at a local diner. He wants to tell him to turn around and walk away because Patrick’s shattered and anyone who gets close is bound to bleed. 

“Well…” Patrick’s words leave his throat without permission. This is what Pete would do, right? This is what Pete always does. “I haven’t been here before but I’m willing to bet there are some free rooms upstairs. Wanna stumble up there and find out?” 

Elias smiles, scared and ecstatic. Patrick can’t return it this time, too busy choking on his own guilt as Elias takes his hand and leads the way.

There’s nothing wrong with this.

Pete does it all the time.

Think like Pete.

Act like Pete.

Be like Pete.

_ And push aside everything telling you this is wrong _ .

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick does what everyone knows and expects Pete Wentz to do. Reminding himself of who he’s trying to be, why he’s trying to be him, makes everything easier.

Or so he keeps telling himself.

They stumble away from the chaos of the crowds to find a silent room, one where the only noises are the ones they make. The darkness of a guest bedroom embraces them like the lovers they pretend to be, drawing the two in and causing them to shut the door without a sound. It happens suddenly, the moment it takes to blink, and then they are alone. It’s just Patrick and Elias, darkness and silence, and they are alone. 

For a moment, neither of them move. Neither of them dare to destroy the precious moment created between them. 

It’s just silence.

And silence has always been Patrick’s greatest fear. He’s never understood how people can rest so easily within it, can let it take the place of conversations that must be had. The way he sees it, it’s the silence that forces the gaps between two people, proves that distance can happen in more than just the physical sense. It screams at him, always screaming at him.

Alone.

Alone.

He’s always been so alone.

Chaos.

Chaos.

Maybe that’s why he’s so desperate to fill his life with chaos. 

Isn’t it chaos to bring Elias into this room without knowing how to follow through?

Isn’t it chaos to hand his heart and body to Pete Wentz with no belief he’ll keep it safe but, rather, the plea for him to bruise it in any way he can?

Isn’t it chaos to give into his desperations and fixations, to let each  _ drip drip drip  _ of his faucet pound against his skull like hammers? Isn’t desperation the act of something chaotic itself?

Hasn’t Patrick’s life become the very definition of chaos?

In a darkened room, with silence and a nervous kid before him, Patrick’s never felt so strongly that everything has tumbled out of control.

“So,” Elias says, licking his lips and stepping closer. “What… What did you want to do? Is this— Should I be—”

_ Should I be afraid? _

Patrick hears the words as plainly as if Elias had spoken them and he shakes his head, letting a hand ghost over the other boy’s arm.

He should walk away. He should send this boy on a better path, with someone less-versed in destruction. He should turn around. He should stop this before it starts.

But Pete never did so for him, did he?

“Do whatever you want,” Patrick breathes. “It’s okay, I—”

He can’t bring himself to finish his words, to promise anything to the bright-eyed boy before him. It doesn’t matter because his words are devoured by a sudden kiss. It’s soft and both are stunned, Elias’ body tense and Patrick’s frozen in place. He wants to pull away because the last person who kissed him was horrible and wrong; the last person to take such intimacy wanted so much more in just a few minutes. 

But Elias is afraid and Patrick finds himself wrapping his hands around the other’s back, drawing him closer as both shut their eyes and give into the feeling. It’s awkward and it’s fumbling, like a couple trying to figure out how they fit. 

But it’s soft and gentle and Elias’ hands flutter in the air before landing on Patrick’s shoulders. Even then, his touch is barely there.

“Patrick,” Elias breathes when they pull away. His eyes are so dark now, so full of wonder, and Patrick has to smile. 

“You’re okay,” Patrick says, hating himself for how far it’s gotten already. “You’re doing great.”

Elias smiles, proud, and Patrick’s guilt twists like a knife in his chest. 

How long will that smile last if he’s pretending to be Pete Wentz? What kind of rules should they set? And how many will they break before the night is through?

“R-Really? Thanks,” Elias says, pressing closer to Patrick. His hands venture down Patrick’s body, landing against his chest with fingertips poking at his shirt nervously. “I’m not sure how far you want this to go but—”

“Have you done anything before?” Patrick asks. Visions of other kids— visions of himself— dance before his eyes and he won’t ruin Elias. Not like Pete worked so hard to ruin him. 

Elias turns red; he looks down. It’s all the answer Patrick needs.

Patrick’s eyes shut slowly; his muscles tighten and his breath hitches. 

Send him away? No, that would be too cruel and the last time he stopped things that had gotten this far… No. He can’t do that.

But he can’t go further without hurting Elias. He knows the look in Elias' eyes, knows that he expects love and a relationship and everything Patrick’s too broken to give.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Patrick says, hoping the panting in his voice comes across as anything other than fear. “We can still… We can still, like,  _ do  _ something, you know, right? There are, um, there are other things if you still want that.”

Elias looks up at him, wide-eyed. “You wouldn’t be upset if I didn’t do… If I don’t want to—”

“Of course not,” Patrick says. “Let’s go at your pace, okay?”

Elias smiles and leans in, quicker than before.

Patrick ducks away. Elias’ lips land on his cheek.

“No kissing, though,” Patrick says. One rule. The first rule. The only one that matters and he hates that he might understand why. “I don’t. We can’t.”

_ You might get the wrong idea and you’ll end up just like me. _

_ No. _

_ You could end up worse because I’m not as good a person as everyone is willing to believe. _

“Oh, um,” Elias stammers, backing up a bit. “Okay.”

Patrick smiles. Elias copies the action.

“Okay, then,” Patrick says. “What is it that  _ you  _ want to do?”

Elias smiles. Patrick smirks.

Elias sinks to his knees, slow with his eyes on Patrick.

“Teach me what to do,” he says.

Patrick nods, hiding his shaking hands by pressing them down on the other boy’s shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He swallows and he tells himself the knot in his throat is from the alcohol he drank before. 

Even if it tastes so strongly of guilt.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Unzipping, the sound breaking the silence.

Hands on his hips and curled hair between his fingers.

Breath against his skin, warm and damp. His own breath mimicking that of what he feels—  _ in out in out in out _ .

An apology, a promise to do well. Patrick giggles, the words he hears not quite registering in his mind. 

“It’s alright,” he says, he slurs. He pets the other’s head. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want.”

He should be taking advantage, should take the fact the other boy is on his knees as consent. But he can’t stop the piece of him trying to teach gentleness, the part of him aching to share what he could never have.

But Elias shakes his head. He wants to do this, he swears. He really, really wants to do this. He promises and Patrick believes him.

Tight jeans and loose briefs pulled down his thighs. A caught breath. A hushed realization that this is really happening.

And, in a second, pleasure. Gentle, soft pleasure as Patrick tosses his head against the wall behind him with a low groan. Fingertips dancing along the skin of his legs, never enough to leave a sensation let alone a mark. Soft thrusts and little gasps. Patrick shuts his eyes.

Patrick’s veins thrum with the heat of Elias’ mouth, the buzz and electric pulse of alcohol and sex beating through him as a reminder of where he is. Why he’s here. Who he’s trying to forget.

Elias pulls off, coughing and clearing his throat with an apologetic laugh. He leans back in, pressing a small kiss to the head before taking Patrick’s cock back in his mouth. He keeps a hand near the base, stroking what he can’t fit. He keeps his eyes on Patrick but Patrick keeps his eyes closed.

There’s something strange about finding gentleness foreign. There’s something wrong about wanting to sob at the kind touches along his skin, Elias’ nails scraping the slightest bit where they rest against his thigh. Patrick guides Elias in his actions, his hand cradling the back of the other boy’s head and trying his best to go slow.

He goes slow and, somehow, that makes it end far too soon.

In a moment, there’s a flash of white behind his eyes and he’s crying out someone’s name. In a minute, Elias is struggling to swallow, wiping cum from his lips with the back of his hand. In a second, Patrick’s eyes are open and he’s not sure which character he’s playing when he drops to his knees to press his hand against Elias’ crotch.

This, too, ends just as quickly as it had when the situation was reversed for Patrick so long ago. 

In a second, Elias is gasping against him and looking longingly at lips he was forbidden to kiss. In a minute, Patrick guides them to the bed and they collapse beside each other, hands interlocked like sweethearts.

In a moment, Elias’ phone rings across the room. Elias leaves to answer it. Hushed voices, actions that hurry with intensity. Patrick doesn’t dare to blink as he watches Elias speak to someone wondering where he is. He entertains himself with the thought that maybe the boy will come back. Maybe he’ll hang up on the caller— a girl with a drunken slur, Patrick can hear in the otherwise silent room. Maybe he’ll smile at Patrick and spend the rest of the night— the rest of the week, the rest of the year, the rest of his  _ life _ — fighting for the right to touch those lips.

But Elias is better than him and is soon adjusting his clothes, fixing his hair and shoving his phone in his pocket. The door opens; a slit of light appears. And Patrick shuts his eyes.

He can’t move, can’t call out even if he wants to. His body’s still thrumming with the after-effects. No, not of the orgasm or stain of someone else’s cum on his hand. No.

He’s still buzzing from the remaining proof that someone treated him with such care. 

Wide eyes and a slack jaw staring up at him from the floor, whispers that someone wants to make him feel good. Touches like dandelion seeds against his skin, each one promising something more gentle in the next second. The smile he somehow received whenever he caught Elias’ eyes. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t have been, but,  _ god,  _ did it feel good. 

Is this why Pete does what he does? 

Does he slink off to God-knows-where in order to find someone willing to look at him like he’s worth the world? Does he grab each scene kid he can just to fill his own head with whispers of how much he’s loved? Does he revel in each touch too scared to leave a bruise? Does he seek out dozens— hundreds— of false lovers just to claim a few more seconds of affection?

Patrick could have given him this.

If Pete had asked, Patrick could have given him anything he wanted. 

Patrick would have given him the world.

All Pete had to do was ask.

What is it about Patrick that keeps those words away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 3:30 in the morning right now :) Part Two will either be posted in a few hours or tomorrow, depending on how willing I am to further destroy my sleep schedule :)


	15. You're [not] Going To Fucking Do This To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two. This was a double update so make sure you read part one!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! It's really early in the morning and I'm really tired but I also have screwed up priorities so I'm just gonna edit and post real quick and pray really hard that I don't make any obvious or embarrassing errors in this chapter. Anyway, enjoy!

Time passes like a threat. It passes like a promise. It passes without meaning but with the weight of something to come. It passes like whispered words and hushed voices saying things they never meant to mean. 

In all, Patrick doesn’t know how much time passes. He just knows that it does.

With each breath and twisted sigh as he stretches across the bed— his shirt riding up and undone jeans tugging at the cheap bedsheets— he knows that time is passing. He knows by the sound of the party going on in the floor beneath him, He knows by the thoughts racing in his head. He knows by the growing nothingness in his chest.

He doesn’t know how much time passes but it’s enough for him to drift in and out of sleep, micro-moments of shutting his eyes and waking up more tired than before. Two or five minutes of quiet and then an eternity of buzzing thoughts.

An eternity, that is, which lasts only until his eyes fall shut again. 

He wakes up a third time, alcohol wearing off but somehow still making him nauseous. He turns his head, screws his eyes shut and swallows down the bile in his throat. His hands fist in the sheets and he knows he should find Joe or head back to the bus. Still, his limbs are filled with lead and he can’t bring himself to breathe any deeper than he already is, let alone fully allow himself to wake up.

He’s only aware of the sounds in the room. The ticking of a clock hung on the wall, the brush of the curtains against the window, his own heavy breaths.

The door opens. He wants to move, to cover himself or mumble for the intruders to leave. He merely succeeds in groaning and heaving out a distressed sigh as his stomach turns over again.

He hears paused steps, a hesitation in the strangers’ breaths.

He hears a girl giggle; he hears intelligible words that sound too mocking for his ears.

He hears his name; he hears Pete’s voice.

Patrick decides sleeping is the better option, giving into dreams rather than realities.

He shuts his eyes; he tunes out the world.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

And then he hears something harsh, like a door slamming or a heart cracking. And his eyes flutter open.

“What the fuck? Is this where you’ve been? What the hell did you do?”

Patrick lifts himself up to his elbows, glaring through the darkness to see the unmistakable shadow that is Pete. His heart, maliciously genuine, beats a bit too fast.

“Nothing. Nothing’s that your business anyway.” He falls back down, groaning at how it makes the room spin. He’s not drunk, no, he’s sure that all wore off in his time of contemplation. But the solid surface of the bed still seems to tilt when Pete comes to stand beside it. He still shuts his eyes as if protesting the glare in Pete’s. “What do you want?”

Pete leans over the bed, pressing his hands down and causing a dip in the mattress. Patrick’s eyes open again and he frowns at Pete’s distraught expression, seen only by the way Patrick’s eyes have adjusted to the darkness.

“You disappeared,” Pete says slowly, “with a stranger. Forgive me if I’m… If I’m a bit caught up on the last time that happened.”

Something tense rolls through the air. Pete’s hand reaches for the bedside lamp but Patrick catches his wrist, sitting up with the urgency of someone with something to hide.

Not that Patrick knows what’s worth hiding anymore.

“Well, I’m fine. I don't need you to take care of me. The kid was more scared than I was and—” Patrick cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I think you’re more scared of 'The Incident' than I was ever supposed to be. What… What happened with… With I— With that dick was an accident and it won’t happen again. So you can stop freaking out. Please.” 

He doesn't mean to add the plea, the final word that casts all else into weakness. But it escapes all the same and it’s too late to take it back.

Pete stares down at Patrick, pitying and pissed all at once, his hand twitching towards the light. Finally, he pulls his hand back with an abrupt action and turns his gaze away. “You won’t even say his name, Patrick. Don’t pretend you’re not afraid of it happening again.”

There’s a fight brewing in the distance, growing closer with each shift of Patrick’s breath. He sits up, completely this time, and sighs. Pete stiffens at the sound and Patrick hates how he wishes he can take the mere breath back into his lungs.

Patrick watches his hands, instead, shapes shifting together as he fidgets in the dark. Maybe it would be better to let Pete turn on a light. Maybe it will reveal their secrets at last without either needing to say a word.

But Pete stays still and Patrick can only hold his breath for so long.

“Are you always waiting for a fight? Are you… Is this supposed to be our new pastime? Because I don’t want to fight you forever but you know I will. Just like the way I felt about our last tour hobby.” Patrick’s words hold a heat he doesn’t feel, a mockery of the way Pete spoke to him.

“Oh, shut up,” Pete says instead of answering Patrick’s questions. Can’t he tell they’re genuine this time or has Patrick lost the ability to get through? The boy that cried wolf, played the part of sarcasm and avoidance for so long that Pete’s too busy defending himself by the time Patrick’s aches begin to show. Patrick never meant for this. “You didn’t have a problem sleeping with that other boy so I don’t see why you’re complaining about what we used to do.”

Patrick’s hands slide over his own arms; he trembles at his own touch.

“He didn’t leave any bruises,” Patrick whispers, too low for Pete to hear. “And none of us left with any visible marks.”

“What?” Pete asks. Angry. Taunting. Itching for another argument, words sparking with a jealousy Patrick can’t bring himself to understand. “Are you keeping secrets to yourself again? Look, the bus can only wait for so long… I think Andy’s trying to buy us time. Let’s get the hell out of here and then we can do whatever the fuck you want in the back room, okay?”

The back room.

Always hiding in the back room.

It’d be easy to be angry, to hide his feelings with rage and terrible words. And Patrick wants to give in. He wants to scream at Pete for never listening. He wants to hate him for assuming the worst, for mocking how Patrick can’t bring himself to say what’s on his mind. He wants to throw a punch of his own, to snarl and shout and tear into the man before him until all that’s left are the shattered pieces Patrick’s used to stepping around. 

He wants to fight and, maybe, if it were an hour ago, he would. But all his emotions are hollow and all he can think about is Elias’ smile. All he can remember is that he’d forgotten how it felt to be wanted, to be gentle, to be cared for in the way a lover should.

Patrick shakes. Once upon a time, he thought Pete loved him. Now, he’s forgotten how that feeling could ever come to be at all. He stares at how far he’s fallen; he shuts his eyes at how far he’s come.

“I don’t want to leave yet,” Patrick says, adding a confidence he doesn’t feel in his voice. 

“And why not?” Pete asks, his tone still harsh. “Is that boy coming back for a second round?”

“You don’t have to be so mean!” Patrick snaps, looking up at Pete. Options float through his mind, choices of what to say next. He could claim something cruel, prod at the possessive behaviors Pete’s displaying or create another lie. If he tries hard enough, he’s sure he could leave with another bruise.

Patrick lifts a hand, softly stroking the tender skin of his cheek. It still aches.

“Just…Stay with me a bit. I… I don’t know… ” Patrick trails off, looking back down at the sheets beneath him. He doesn’t want Pete to hit him; he doesn’t want Pete to hate him. He just wants Pete to finally give into the fact that something’s gone wrong between them. Oh, sure, Pete's hinted at it. He’s beaten around the bush and played catch with the blame. But he’s never admitted it. He’s never really questioned the reasons for Patrick’s behavior tonight. He hasn’t seen anymore than he wants to.

More than Patrick wants Pete to see that something’s wrong, he wants him to see  _ what’s  _ wrong.

What’s so wrong with wanting that?

He shifts on the bed, glimpsing up at Pete once more. Agitation itches beneath his skin and, when Pete’s cold eyes are all he finds in the darkness, it spreads through his body like a red-hot virus burning a path through his veins. It reaches for his eyes, fierce and stinging in every way he hates. He can’t start crying. He won’t. Not again.

Not with so many miscommunications fitting the air around them; not with Pete’s own judgment and Patrick’s choices to hide filling the space between them.

It’d be so easy to admit the truth, to spill his guts about his feelings from day one. It’d be easier than giving into his imaginary anger; it’d be easier than playing pretend a second longer. Take off the mask, shed the cloak and share the script. All of it can be done in a matter of seconds and it can be done with a smile, no less.

Patrick feels sick, his stomach lurching with a cold panic. 

At this rate, he’ll never find the time or way to say what he needs. 

And hiding has always been so much easier.

_ Tomorrow _ , he tells himself.  _ Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll tell him everything. But tonight? Right now? There’s only one way to cope with these emotions. _

“Hey, so, don’t… don’t question it. But… But I need you… I need you to—” Patrick stops, swallowing. His mouth is suddenly dry, as if his body knows more than his mind does. As if the bearer of these bruises is finally speaking out and as if the habit can be so easily broken. He shakes away the thought. “I need you to fuck me and make it last, Pete. I need you to do it hard and I need you to do it now.”

Pete had come in expecting a fight; Patrick had done his best to avoid it. Somehow, Patrick’s best wasn’t enough, is never enough. 

“Pete, just listen to me. Just this and I’ll never ask for it again. You can do it one more time, right? For me?”

Patrick’s words are gasps, his fingers tangling into his hair as if he can tear his own emotions from his head. Pete’s eyes watch and burn hotter than they ever have before.

The overflowing faucet and the fire in Pete’s eyes meet; Patrick knows it’s a match made in hell.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Patrick. You were… You’ve been drinking and the stress of the day is clearly catching up with you. Yeah.” Pete reaches out, stopping inches before reaching Patrick’s shoulder. His hand lingers in the air, the same way Patrick’s words do. Seconds pass. Patrick holds his breath, waiting for the hand to fall to his skin but letting a relieved sigh escape when Pete pulls back instead. “You don’t need me to do that. You don’t. You’ve just fooled yourself into thinking you do.”

_ Yes.  _

_ What a desperate fool I am _

Patrick’s laughter is ugly and harsh when it tears free from his throat, tears coating his eyes but not daring to fall.

“Don’t give me that fucking shit, Pete,” he snaps, taking pleasure in the way Pete recoils. Pete thinks he can say a simple  _ no  _ and get away with it? Leave because Patrick’s version of fun doesn’t fit with his definition? That’s not how this is supposed to work and Patrick can’t bring himself to care about the sharp edges of his own smile digging into his cheeks. He’s learned enough about Pete. He knows how to make him stay.

“I can always just ask someone else to do it, you know. Call back Elias or someone bigger, someone stronger and willing to treat me the way I des— ask. The way I ask.” Even the thought of someone holding Patrick down the way Pete’s done is enough to fill his mouth with a taste like ash. His skin prickles at his own insinuations; his own memories work against him.

_ Brick against his back, hands against his skin. Harsh words against his ears and the need to scream for—  _

“I just  _ need  _ it. Just this once.” Patrick’s voice begins to break the more he speaks, cracks the invulnerable facade he’s tried to wear for so long. The same shade of sad and forlorn Pete had shown in the dressing room just hours ago color his face. Patrick hates that he can’t tell if he’s still pretending or not. Everything about his thoughts scream that he is. Nothing about his actions prove it, though. “It doesn’t fucking mean anything, right? It never has and it never will so why try to make this any different? Come on, Pete, I need it.”

He sounds like an addict and he feels like a whore, begging for someone’s dick up his ass and bruises on his skin. His hands form fists but release as soon as nails press into his palms.

No.

It will only work if the pain comes from Pete.

“Patrick, just listen to yourself!” Desperation slips into Pete’s voice. It’s a horrible change from everything Patrick’s considered part of the routine. “Let me take you back to the bus and take care of you for once! You’ve… You’re stressed and you’re reaching a point I won’t be able to pull you back from unless you let me in. Just let me help. That’s what you need. It’s what you deserve.”

“No!” Patrick doesn’t mean to scream but the scrape of the word along his throat, blending into the blasting party music and sounds from downstairs, feels nice. “Pete… Pete, I need you to do this for me! Why can’t you… Why can’t you just listen to me? Pete… Pete,  _ please _ .” 

Pete's breath hitches and Patrick smiles.

He’s got him.

“Pete.” He looks up, lets Pete see the tears glistening in the dark, the red shame painting his cheeks. There are a million ways to win this argument— fists, reason, manipulation— but one word can end it now. The definition of desperate… The perfect example of everything Patrick never wanted to be. 

“Please.”

Pete’s eyes shut once more but he doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t say no.

Hands extend, soft and shaking as Pete brushes Patrick’s hair from his face. Silence— blessed, cursed silence— surrounds them the way it always has.

“Please,” Patrick whispers, his eyes slipping shut as the bed dips under Pete’s weight, the bassist kneeling beside him. Pete takes another breath, as unsteady as his hands, and presses closer.

“This is the last time,” he says. “It has to be the last time.”

“Of course.” Patrick doesn’t mean a word of his promise but it doesn’t matter so long as it draws Pete nearer, so long as it grants the chance to try again later.

Patrick’s eyes open and he reaches slowly, but not as slow as Pete, to wrap his fingers lightly around the other’s wrist. He tugs him close, falling back and letting Pete follow.

A second passes, Pete propped up over Patrick with his hair tickling Patrick’s nose. They breathe, out of sync, and wait.

Wait.

“What do you want me to do?” Pete asks. It’s soft, tender, but still causes a ripple in the tense silence drowning them both.

Patrick breathes deeply, filling himself with fear and forgetting his pain. “I don’t know.”

It’s both the greatest lie and heaviest truth Patrick’s spoken all night.

Pete shudders, shutting his eyes. They’re frozen, they’re stone, they’re waiting for permission to move. Patrick usually takes the lead in moments like this, dictating where Pete's hands should go and what color the bruises should be. He usually takes the lead but he can barely bring himself to think, let alone speak. He can’t move in fear of breaking and, from the trembling limbs and hesitant breaths, Patrick knows Pete feels the same. They’re broken but it doesn’t matter that this will only make things worse.

“I didn’t… I never wanted to hurt you,” Pete says, the words crashing through the air like a body through ice. “I never wanted to hurt you, Patrick. You’re my best friend. You… I never wanted this for you.”

There are a thousand ways to answer; there are a thousand ways to understand those words. Patrick’s tempted to give in to the interpretation he likes best but he knows better than to believe a love confession can take that shape. He knows better than to take off either of their masks.

“Then don’t treat me like your  _ Patrick _ ,” he says, staring at Pete’s face and hating how his eyes are closed. It’s not fair, it’s not allowed, and it hurts worse than if Pete had left. He chose Patrick; he chose to stay. He doesn’t get to pretend this isn’t happening. If Pete wants to hide from the fact that this is  _ Patrick  _ he’s hurting, he can use another way out. So long as Patrick still feels his eyes on him… that recognition is all Patrick needs. “Call me something else, if it will make you feel better. Any name. Any  _ word _ . Slut, whore, bitch…  _ Trick _ .”

Pete’s eyes flash open.

“Trick doesn’t belong on that list,” he says. He almost sounds like he believes it.

Patrick wraps his arms around his neck, holding him in place while knowing he doesn’t need to.

“Then pretend it does.”

The rest— the words that could have formed pleas and moans and desperate begs for Pete to understand— are lost in the flurry of Pete’s reaction, the way he lets his weight fall on to Patrick and the way his hands bury themselves in the other’s hair.

“You’re so needy tonight, aren’t you?” he asks, the words half-hearted but sending shivers down Patrick’s spine all the same. Even with Pete’s weight on him, the singer finds it so much easier to breathe.

“Yes,” he gasps.  _ This  _ is what he needs.  _ This  _ is what he asked for.  _ This  _ is what he’s used to. Pete’s hands tighten, pulling at Patrick’s hair in a way that his eyes promise are by accident. Patrick shuts his eyes, tossing his head to the side and letting the pain in his scalp sharpen. “Yes, like that.”

Pete sucks in a breath, as greedy as Patrick, and pulls until Patrick’s eyes are open and he’s staring up at him again.

“You like being treated like that?” Pete’s lips twist into a ghost of a scowl, eyes narrowed and nose crinkled. His breath dances along Patrick’s face, a teasing touch as he leans in close.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Patrick breathes back, taking pleasure in how their air intermingles in ways they, as individuals, never could. 

Silence. Always silence. Patrick watches Pete think, watches him contemplate, watches him form words neither of them wants to hear or say.

“You’re such a… What is it you said?” Pete leans in, his lips against Patrick’s ear but his voice still so faint. “Right… You said it best… You’re such a fucking  _ slut _ .”

It sounds like he’s waiting for a reaction, like he’s testing the waters and trying to prove a point. 

Maybe, weeks ago, Patrick would have withdrawn or flinched. 

Maybe, days ago, his tears would find their places again.

Maybe, hours from now, it’ll sound like the insult it should be.

_ Such a slut _

But, right now, all it sounds like is the truth.

Pete doesn’t react, at first. Not in the way he should. His grip in Patrick’s hair tightens, sure, but he doesn’t pull back. He lets one hand wander down Patrick’s side, each fingertip more hesitant than the last as he plays against Patrick’s skin like a keyboard. His breaths play the part of the rhythm— hitching and unsure. His trembling body over Patrick’s plays the part of the lyrics— all the words neither of them want to say.

“Such a slut,” Pete says, using the same tone as before. But he’s moving, so it doesn’t matter. He sits back and tugs his shirt off, making quick work of Patrick’s as his eyes darken. The shirt comes off easily, Patrick too lost in Pete's voice to resist. “Nothing but a whore, right?”

“Right,” Patrick says, lifting his hips and helping Pete when he moves to pull his pants down his legs. It’s harsh and denim scratches against his thighs, becoming everything Patrick needs Pete to be. It’s nothing like Elias’ hesitation, his fears of doing something wrong. The pit in Patrick’s stomach, the black hole in his chest, tell him those fears have found a new home but, with Pete’s words rolling through the air, it’s easy to pretend fears don’t exist at all.

“Slut. Whore. Bitch. You want me to call you that.”

It’s not a question.

“Well, yeah,” Patrick agrees anyway, kicking his legs free of his pants and sighing as Pete starts on his own belt. His hands shake; it’s nothing new. “That’s why you call me Trick, right?”

Pete doesn’t hesitate, scoffing and throwing his belt to the floor. He keeps his eyes on his hands as he undresses, never once daring to glance at Patrick. “Sure thing,  _ Trick _ . You have me all figured out.”

There’s no need for more words, no need for lingering glances or cautious expressions. Pete reaches for Patrick and Patrick gives beneath his touch, eyes slipping shut as all reason slips away. They aren’t doing this for pleasure or fun or any other excuse they’ve used since the start; Pete’s hands are rough as he ransacks the bedside drawers— drawers that could belong to anyone— for lube. He’s not as rough as he preps Patrick, still breathing cruel words with a concerned tone as he works his fingers inside him. Patrick writhes, giving every moan and sigh the right amount of  _ yes  _ for Pete to keep going. 

“It’s ridiculous that you’re so okay with being treated like this. Like nothing more than a fucking sex toy,” Pete mocks, twisting his fingers inside of Patrick and smirking as Patrick grinds down onto them. “Is that really what you want to hear? Is that really what you think you are?’

“Of fucking course, Pete. It’s all I’ve known from you,” Patrick spits, the harsh intention lost in the gasp he gives when Pete prods against his prostate. He thrusts his hips without thought, tossing his head to the side and biting back a moan. “So you can stop with the prep by now. I’m a whore, right? I can take it.”

Pete tenses, a reaction Patrick expected. He expects a refusal, a denial, an excuse.

Instead, Pete looks down at him with the same fury he’d held in the backstage room.

“You know what? Fine. We’ll do everything your way. Just like we always do.” Pete’s once calm and trembling voice strikes Patrick like fists. It’s low and it’s hard to hear but it fills the room as easily as a fire, burning Patrick with it’s fear, anger, and hate. Patrick meets it with empty, desperate eyes. He doesn’t speak back. He knows it’s what he asked for; he knows it’s what he deserves. “You better fucking hope you know your limits and, if you don’t, you better find them. I’m done taking care of you.”

It's a good thing, Patrick thinks, that he's always claimed he doesn't need Pete's care anyway.

Pete’s fingers slide out. He moves back and readjusts, murmuring frustration and irritation to himself in words Patrick can’t understand. Patrick’s own voice tries to form a witty retort, something that proves he’s okay and ready.

But then Pete pushes in and Patrick finds himself swallowing down all his words, along with the cry of pain that wells up in his chest. He tries to bite down on his lip, tries to hide his whimpers, but Pete’s thumb finds his teeth first, prying Patrick’s mouth open as he starts a brutally painful pace.

“If I’m doing this, I deserve to hear those pretty little screams,” Pete breathes, leaning over Patrick as he thrusts back into him. Patrick makes a noise halfway between a moan and a cry, watching as Pete smiles half-heartedly at the sound. “Are you gonna be a good boy for me,  _ Trick _ ? Do I get to hear you scream?”

Patrick’s tongue presses against the tip of Pete’s thumb and Pete’s fingers dig into his jaw. The part, though, that blurs Patrick’s mind and dizzies his vision is the warmth of Pete’s thumbpad against his lip, exactly the way it felt when Pete had so lovingly touched him downstairs.

But it’s not the exact same, is it? Here, Patrick’s teeth sink painfully into his lip as Pete presses down. Here, Pete’s eyes are slipping shut rather than watching the boy beneath him.

Here, it’s a perversion of everything Patrick wanted. Everything he could have had.

Everything he turned away.

Patrick gasps— more pain than pleasure— as Pete’s thrusts grow more erratic, as Pete’s hand sears into his skin to hold him down, as Pete’s grip on his jaw forces each undignified sound to fill the air.

Pete doesn’t seem to care as he uses Patrick, letting the cries and moans surround them like a symphony. Patrick can’t pretend that he’s okay, not with Pete forcing each pained gasp from his parted lips. Tears prick at his eyes but they’re merely a result of the physical ache, of the shocks of hurt spreading through his hips and ass. They aren’t connected to emotion. They aren’t worth worrying about.

Or so Patrick tells himself, anyway.

“Is this what you planned? Is this what you wanted?” Pete asks with a shuddering voice, nuzzling into Patrick’s neck with heavy breaths. “You look so good, right now,  _ Trick _ . You’re so pretty spread out around my cock.”

Rehearsed lines Pete’s probably said a hundred times before, thinking up metaphors and similes for whoever he’s fucking as he gives them lines they want to hear. And it would work for Patrick if he couldn’t see the outline of lipstick on Pete’s cheek when he pulls back. He’d keep playing along, would call this enough, if he couldn’t smell something floral and lovely and not Pete brushing between their bodies. Perfume and makeup stain Patrick’s senses and he has to flinch away.

He has to find a way to hide from these thoughts, these facts.

Patrick pulls Pete’s hand from his mouth, watching Pete wince as his thumb scratches along his tooth. He meets his eyes and says the one phrase he’d tried so hard to stay away from.

“Hit me.”

Pete slams to a halt as the words break through the air, his cock halfway in Patrick and his skin slick with sweat. His eyes narrow as he pushes himself away from the singer with a growl. “What the fuck?”

It’s incredulous and it’s in disbelief. It’s confused and angry and  _ wrong _ . 

Why won’t Pete just give in?

“Come on,” Patrick whines, pulling Pete’s hand towards his cheek, towards his bruise. “You did it before, didn’t you? This is what I want, right? Hit me, call me names,  _ use  _ me like you always do. And, for the love of god, can you start moving, you asshole?”

The weight of Pete's gaze is worse than the unspoken words painting the sharp shape of Pete's lips. The bassist keeps still, swallowing repeatedly as Patrick writhes beneath him. Patrick knows he only has so much self-control and he moves down against Pete’s cock, trying desperately—  _ desperately, always so desperately—  _ to focus the other's attention back to where it needs to be.

Pete’s chin falls to his chest, his hair dangling before his face. 

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” he says, barely a breath but more than a whisper. He’s frustrated; Patrick can tell by the tension in his voice and body. He’s upset; Patrick’s known that for a while.

Still, he raises his hand.

Still, he brings it to Patrick’s face.

It’s delicate and it’s weak and it’s a fucking insult after the fist he’d thrown in the dressing room the same night. It’s aimed at the place beneath the bruise, pointedly ignoring Patrick’s unspoken request. It’s faked and it’s forced and it’s almost not enough.

Almost.

It’s soft but it’s coupled with Pete slamming back into him. It’s matched with Pete’s pace picking back up— too fast, too much, so soon after so little prep. 

It’s soft but it’s still done right. 

It’s soft but it’s so, so close to perfect.

Pete goes faster and harder than he should, pinning Patrick’s hands above his head. Pete reaches, a dirty smile on his face, to smack him on the thighs.

“Keep your hips moving,” Pete says, hitting his leg again. “If I have to do what you say, you have to play the matching part.”

Patrick obeys, submits, listens. He rolls his hips and thrusts back against Pete, whining each time Pete claims it’s not enough, never enough, not good enough and slaps his thighs again.

“Pete, please do it again. I need you to keep hitting me,” Patrick says. He’s quiet, his eyes blinking back dampness brought on by nothing but pain. The feeling of those tears— cruel and traitorous— chokes him.

“I can’t hurt you like that,” Pete says, pinching the skin of Patrick’s bruise. Patrick breathes in a sharp gasp at the action, ignoring the hurt in Pete’s voice. “Not like that. Not ever again.”

“ _ Please _ .”

Pete twists his fingers, bringing more heat and hurt to Patrick’s cheek. It’s close enough to what he needs, close enough to make Patrick cry out but not nearly enough to make him forget. Pete sighs, a strangely soft sound, and releases. “I’ll do what I want. I’ll try to do what you need but I’m not going to hit you.”

Patrick widens his eyes and swallows. He curls his fingers into the sheets beneath him, not sure if he wants to pull Pete close or push him away like the rejection hidden in the other’s last words. Here, in a moment that he knows shouldn’t exist, he lets go of all pretense. 

“Just make it hurt,” he says, softer than a breath.

Pete squeezes his bruise one last time and smirks.

“I will.”

And Patrick can’t complain as Pete bends to sink his teeth into his neck, to suck and slam into him, to bruise him in ways created by people in love. Pete scratches his nails down Patrick’s chest, pulling back to grin at the blooming red trails against pale skin. He buries his hands in Patrick’s hair, pulling and tugging and tempting every tear to fall when he says, “you aren’t allowed to close your eyes during any of this.”

Patrick can’t complain because— from the bruising skin on his neck and the strands of hair caught between Pete’s fingers, from the gasping pain of choking back tears and the mesmerizing ache of Pete’s dick pounding in and out of him— it’s perfect.

It’s perfect.

Pete reaches between them, jerking Patrick off with languid strokes that contrast against the cruel pace his hips have set. His hand is only dampened by sweat and his grip is too tight but it's easy to forgive when he finds Patrick’s prostate and presses against it with each thrust. He fucks Patrick in every way Patrick likes best, twists his wrist in a way that makes him moan. 

Perfect.

Pete repeats every insult Patrick had fed to him, twisting and thrusting, cock slamming into that bundle of nerves mercilessly. Too soon— too soon but never soon enough, in the moment between two breaking breaths— whirlpools of consuming pleasure, deepening sensations of lust and warmth, swirl through Patrick's body and mind, dragging him beneath the surface of every hurtful word or thought that’s attacked him this day, this month, this entire time at Pete’s side. Gunpowder and earthquakes swell in him, building like the wick of dynamite burning to the ultimate goal. His breath catches in his throat with painful intensity, his body tensing and writhing as Pete speeds up his hand on his dick.

“Pete, Pete,  _ fuck _ ,” he breathes, the words running into each other. “I’m gonna come, oh my god, Pete, fuck.”

Pete’s laughter is just a mocking breath, tightening his hold enough to make Patrick whine.

“Just an easy way out of this, huh? Thought you could handle something rough… Made it all like you’d be tough but whores like you never know what they’re doing.” He sounds like he believes it and it’s  _ perfect _ . “Are you gonna come now? Gonna come all over yourself with dick in you? Huh,  _ Trick _ ?”

But Patrick does hate the way he says the nickname, like another insult added to the list. Like it never occurred to him that this is all it was good for, like it matters more now than it did before.

Pete laughs again, suddenly slipping his hand to the base of Patrick’s cock.

He squeezes and the feeling— those fireworks and rockets— begin to fade.

Patrick sobs and jerks sporadically, nails digging into the bed in search of the pleasure Pete’s denying him.

“What if I don’t let you?” Pete asks, teeth like daggers as they scrape against his shoulder. Patrick bites down on his tongue, tries to bite away every sob that wishes to escape.

“Pete, please!” Patrick cries out anyway, mind blurred from standing on the brink of pleasure. Pete’s head lifts and their eyes meet— darkened and hardened brown against the desperation of blue-green waves. Pete refuses to give in and finally, finally, tears release from Patrick’s eyes as he thrashes against his touch, hands spasming against the sheets as he fights with the urge to slap Pete’s hand away and finish himself.

No. He has to have it come from Pete. He has to have that permission. It’s the only form of peace and happiness he can gain from the bassist and he won’t let anyone take this last piece away.

“Please,” Patrick sobs, body jerking and flinching without his permission. 

And Pete breaks character; he breaks his character so suddenly it’s as if he’s broken entirely.

“Fine,” Pete says with softened eyes and a lighter touch. No, no, this isn’t what Patrick wanted! This isn’t what he asked for!

It doesn’t matter because, just like always, Pete’s choice is what he’s getting. 

“Alright,” Pete breathes, hair a mess and eyes devoid of any anger he’d shown before. He lets go of Patrick and reaches to cup Patrick’s cheek instead, propped above him on his elbows but still so close. His lips tease Patrick with their proximity; they mock him with the thousands of words they’ve each left unsaid.

Pete reaches once more to start stroking Patrick’s cock softly, enough to have him whining again. 

Patrick’s breath comes quickly; his head grows light as everything becomes too much.

He’s stuck in the crowd again, stuck between the push and pull of his own fight or flight response. He’s trapped in one place, Pete’s hand tripping across his skin. 

Dark spots appear in Patrick’s vision, blocking Pete’s face from view.

He’s back in the midst of the party, lost and fighting to hold onto his mask. He’s pretending to be Pete Wentz again, realizing too late he has no idea how.

Patrick swallows, the sound of Pete whispering and moaning keeping him here in this darkened room.

Too many people that know he’s nothing like the way he’s presented.

Too many voices in his head, telling him this will never be enough.

Too many strange feelings— physical and mental— colliding like a wave crashing against a city

Too much, too fast, too loud, too close, too—

Pete’s face appears; his voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Now.” He twists his wrist; he slams in one last time.

Patrick shuts his eyes and lets his orgasm overwhelm him.

He forgets everything and just screams.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

At first, Patrick wakes with no memory of what’s happened. His body aches, soft thrums of pain bringing him back to consciousness with each passing second. A voice— smooth and hushed, like a whisper but kinder— drifts sluggishly in and out of his ears.

“Shit, I was hoping that one wouldn’t leave a mark…”

Pete.

It’s Pete. Of course.

Patrick’s eyes struggle to open as hands— Pete’s hands— skim across his body, moving him and prodding at minute-old wounds. Patrick whines in shock as a cool towel wipes along his stomach but Pete only pauses for a moment before continuing.

“You passed out after you finished,” Pete says, whispering without reason. The sounds of the party have dulled down, clearly still going on but emptying out bit by bit. “You were breathing pretty heavily by the end of it. I think you just ran out of air.”

If he could, Patrick would choke out a harsh laugh. Instead, he lets his eyes slip closed again.

“What are you doing?” He mumbles. His limbs are heavy when he tries to move them, cemented to the bed as Pete cleans him up. He turns his head to the side, exhaustion still seeping into his bones despite Pete’s claim that he’d had the chance to sleep. Pete doesn’t answer but it doesn’t matter; he’s tried his hand at aftercare often enough for Patrick to understand.

Still, when Pete runs a new towel over Patrick’s scratched-up chest, one that’s warm and dripping water, Patrick reaches to stop him. It’s instinct, it’s natural, it’s right. He needs to be sure he can feel these injuries or else they have no meaning at all.

He opens his eyes, prepared to see Pete watching him with that frustrated scowl he’s been wearing so often. Instead, he’s greeted with the sight of Pete slouched over him, hair hiding his eyes and his mouth closed shut to hide his words.

“I’m fine,” Patrick says, a habit as he tries to push Pete’s hand away. Pete, though, stays put and shakes his head.

“Joe’s waiting,” he says, his voice monotonous and terrifying. “We have to get back to the bus. Just… Just let me take care of you before we go.”

Patrick tries to sink deeper into the pillows and sheets, tries to hide from the heartbreak in Pete’s words. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

Pete’s hand forms a fist, scraping the towel down Patrick’s chest and exposing his damp skin to the cool air. “I don’t care.”

“I know.” It’s snarky and it’s familiar territory, though this territory is one Patrick never wished to venture on. Still, the words don’t burn in his throat the way he thought they would; they barely even sting.

But it does hurt when Pete finally lifts his head to look at him, eyes red-rimmed and mouth set in a perpetual frown. His voice is harsh when he speaks, pieces of sandpaper dragging against each other. “You don’t.”

Downstairs, someone shrieks in laughter. Downstairs, a glass breaks, and partygoers curse. Downstairs, the music struggles to find a volume that suits everyone— too loud, too quiet, too much, too silent.

Upstairs, though, all Patrick can hear is his pulse in his ears. 

“You don’t understand,” Pete says, at last, the words sounding half-formed as he fights to get them out. It’s not like him at all and it freezes Patrick in his place, still stretched out beneath Pete and staring up at the man he loves. “I’ll always do my best to take care of you, no matter what you think you need. I care about you more than you understand, more than you can fucking comprehend, and this game we started is useless. It’s stupid. Pretending that any of this could stop any feelings from growing was stupid. Pretending those feelings didn’t exist was even worse and I’m so stupid for taking so long to realize what’s been going on. I’m so fucking stupid for letting you ever think I didn’t feel the same way. That I didn’t… That I didn’t care about you, too.”

Pete’s hands have dropped to the sheets, pulling at them and forming fists the way Patrick had been when Pete’s cock had been buried inside him. He leans over Patrick with a new wrath in his eyes, a new scowl on his face, a new frustration in his voice.

It’s all so confusing.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” Patrick says, feeding Pete’s words back to him.

A breath. A hesitation. 

A thousand thoughts and unsaid words that have no right to exist in this time and place.

Not after everything Pete said; not after everything Patrick’s done.

Not after the disaster this relationship— this friendship, this game— has become.

Not after the chaos.

Pete lifts a hand to gently run his fingers through Patrick’s hair before stroking down to rest on the side of his face. Patrick’s body tenses as he continues, as he stares down at him, as he refuses to answer to his confusion. His heart beats wildly in his chest and his breath hitches in ways that cause a flicker of a smile on Pete’s face. 

Pete’s face— Pete’s eyes, Pete’s smile, Pete’s lips— is suddenly far too close. Inches away, breaths away, moments away from a collision they’d never survive. There’s never been this little space for such a long time before.

Patrick watches Pete’s eyes— burning with temptation and sparking with lust. He watches as they glance down towards Patrick’s lips, his other hand distracting him by landing beside his head. Pete moves, one leg coming to the other side of Patrick’s waist, straddling him as Patrick’s stomach lights up with hundreds of nerves, as Patrick’s mind sears with thousands of questions. 

Before Patrick can pull away— before he can decide if he wants to— Pete’s lips come down to press against his.

 It’s as gentle as the touch he’d given his lip earlier in the night, wiping away alcohol with a smile on his face. It’s as simple as the grin he’d shared but nothing’s simple when that grin is lined up against Patrick’s parting lips.

It’s electricity and dynamite, explosions and fireworks against Patrick’s skin and Patrick shuts his eyes before he’s blinded. He gives in, the way he always knew he would should this miracle occur, and tangles his hands in Pete’s hair, pulling him closer, moaning and begging for just a fraction of the distance between them to disappear. Pete’s smile grows and, for once, Patrick smiles back, teeth knocking against each other clumsily but only adding to the moment.

Patrick shouldn’t be doing this, his mind tells him. He shouldn’t be kissing back, shouldn't be arching and whimpering at the feel of Pete’s tongue teasing his lips. But he doesn’t think of what might happen after, doesn’t wonder of the sincerity as he meets Pete’s tongue with his own. Every movement of his body goes against what his mind screams, refusing to break the kiss, not even to breathe. He’s lost his breath a thousand times before— to cold and demanding hands, to the man before him, to the way he’d gasp for air each time he saw a bruise— but this, he thinks, is the perfect way to lose it all. He’d rather be breathless than choking; he’d rather share his oxygen with Pete than beg for it to be taken by force.

Pete’s hands roam his body, sliding across his skin as he presses him against the bed. He pushes himself to his knees, hands holding Patrick’s shoulders down but with a gentleness that promises Patrick could still break free should he want. Not that he imagines he ever will; not that he could ever imagine saying no to this moment.

The way Pete’s fingernails scratch kindly and sweetly down Patrick’s arms doesn’t fit into any reality Patrick’s created; the soft rumble of his laughter doesn’t match the way Patrick views his world. It’s wrong and out of place but, as Pete moves to kiss along Patrick’s jaw, it might be perfect.

But the sweetness never lasts.

Pete presses a hand against Patrick’s chest, perhaps meaning to hold him in place to better kiss each inch of his skin. 

The reason, though, doesn’t matter.

The pain of the scratches on Patrick’s chest— the red trails Pete’s nails had blazed— make themselves known within an instant. They scream for recognition; they force memories back into Patrick’s head.

And Patrick crashes back into reality; he opens his eyes with a pained sound and the realization that he hasn’t left his earth after all.

Pete gave him these wounds.

Pete knew— knows— Patrick loves him and kept— keeps— playing with his body and heart.

Pete slept with and kissed so many different people in the same way he’s kissing Patrick.

Pete told him this meant nothing.

Pete told him this would always mean nothing.

And Patrick’s worked too hard to have his heart broken over one weak moment of a kiss.

He can’t let his defenses fall. Not now; not ever.

Everything’s a mess of shadows and shocked voices when Patrick pushes Pete away from him, shaking his head to displace his lips and rolling off the bed to get away.

He can’t let this happen. He can’t give in.

He scrambles for his clothes, dressing blindly as Pete calls his name over and over.

“Patrick! Patrick! Patrick, come on,  _ Trick _ !”

Patrick ignores each desperate call. He runs for the door, aching to escape and knowing full well he has nowhere to go.

Perhaps that’s the realization that makes him pause, hand gripping the doorknob and breaths returning with a vengeance.

“Patrick,” Pete calls out. Lost. Lonely. Broken. “What’s wrong?”

A sob makes its way into Patrick’s throat but he stops it by pressing his own fingers over his lips, covering the warmth that still lingers there. He refuses to turn, refuses to make the mistake of watching Pete’s expression fall as Patrick rejects him the way he feels he’s been rejected so many times in the past.

“You’re not doing this to me,” Patrick breathes, not caring if Pete hears or not. “You’re not going to fucking do this to me.”

The words may linger in the air, or they may shatter. Patrick doesn’t wait to find out how strong they are.

He opens the door and runs into the welcoming arms of meaningless sound and organized chaos— chaos only controlled by alcohol in veins and dirty smiles on faces. 

He runs and lets the sound of Pete calling his name get lost in the dying voices of the party.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! It's now 5:30 in the morning and I gave up all my sleep for tonight to get this posted so I think a fair trade would be any sort of comment? Either way, thanks for reading and have a fantastic day/night!


	16. You're [not] Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one fact that every one of us already knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :)
> 
> *I attempted to edit this chapter, like, 3 times but my computer kept crashing so. Please be forgiving...

Screaming. Laughing. Running. Crying.

Everything is too much; everything is too fast. Everything burns into Patrick’s skin with the taunts of his inability to react naturally to his surroundings. Everything laughs with voices like knives, crossing his skin with red-hot pain as he bites back the tears— so many tears, too many tears— fighting their way to his eyes.

Everything is too much but none of this is new.

Pete’s hot on his trail, he knows, and he pushes himself harder, stumbling down the stairs with a flimsy grip on the rail. His vision blurs as he passes by kids kissing at the bottom, shooting dirty looks his way. He doesn’t care, though. He can’t bring himself to care anymore.

“Patrick! Patrick, please, stop!” Pete screams, following him with the tenacity and speed of a former soccer star. A piece of Patrick’s mind begs him to listen, to obey and allow Pete another chance to speak. Another piece, though— a stronger piece, an aching piece— forces him to keep running. It’s the easier option, anyhow.

A door appears in Patrick’s sight, a safe haven amongst the dozens, hundreds, of people crowding around him. He runs for it, not caring about how easy it will be for Pete to follow.

Grasp the handle; tear it open. He doesn’t remember slamming it shut after stepping inside; he can’t recall his fingers shaking as he fiddles with the lock.

His mind jumps back into action when he hears someone call his name.

“Woah, Patrick? Dude, what’s wrong?”

Patrick turns to see Joe staring at him, pressed against the counter of the small bathroom with a smoke lifted halfway to his lips. He raises an eyebrow and drops his smile, taking in Patrick’s wrecked form.

“Joe, Joe, I’m—” Patrick can’t finish his sentence, his breaths too heavy for any words to fit through.

Joe— blessed, good, reliable Joe— tosses his smoke into the sink and rushes to Patrick’s side. His hands find Patrick’s shoulders; his lips form Patrick’s name.

And everything inside Patrick finally breaks.

Pete’s lips on his, Pete’s words in his ears.

“I care about you more than you understand.”

Electricity and fireworks, the promise of something Patrick’s always wished for.

“Let me take care of you”

Soft hands, warm eyes, kind words.

But

“It’s not my fucking fault you fell in love with me”

A fist on his cheek

“Hundreds of lyrics just for”

Hands on someone else

“It can’t be like that”

Lips turning away; hands pushing him back

“It could never be like that”

Sore knees

Shaking hands

“It’d be too chaotic”

It’d be too chaotic to breakdown but that’s what Patrick does, a flood of fear and panic overwhelming him like the fireworks he swore he felt before. Joe’s hands continue to rub his arms; his voice continues to call for Patrick’s attention. But Patrick can’t understand, can’t comprehend reality when he’s standing so close to the edge of losing his mind. He shoves back against Joe’s chest, dull nails scraping against his shirt as he gasps for space and breath. Too close, too much, too fast… Patrick shuts his eyes and tells himself not to scream. Joe’s hands tighten on his arm, press into a bruise, and Patrick’s eyes slam open with the force of a gunshot.

He still can’t bring himself to speak, can’t force himself to do anything other than stare at Joe with widened eyes. God, why did he have to end up in here? With Joe and his probing questions? What if he finds out? What if he doesn’t?

And is Pete still chasing after him or has he given up? Which answer is Patrick hoping for? Which answer is worse?

“ —swer me! You need to let me know what’s going on. I tried to find you earlier but you seemed fine with Pete. So, where the hell did you get these bruises and shit? Did someone hurt you? Come on, let me know you’re okay!”

Patrick shuts his eyes again, arms wrapped around himself like a child trying to believe everything’s okay. He should give Joe an answer; Joe deserves an answer.

But all Patrick can do is gasp out Pete’s name.

“Pete,” he says, letting his eyes open and allowing a few tears to stream down his face. Weak, weak, weak…

“Pete?” Joe repeats, eyes widening as he steps back in shock. Patrick watches as anger sets into him, eyes narrowing into pissed slits. His words are slow, chosen carefully as he reaches a hand out towards Patrick again. “Don’t tell me Pete fucking did this to you.”

Patrick shakes his head; he nods it. He shrugs and shakes his head again. “I don’t know, Joe. I don’t fucking know anymore.”

He owes Joe an explanation or an answer, something to make up for racing in here with bruised skin and wet eyes. Still, nothing feels real and he can barely move.

Joe’s eyes soften. “Alright. Okay. Let’s get back to the bus and talk about it there. Alright?”

All Patrick can do is nod and wipe away the tears still lingering on his cheeks, biting back a wince when he brushes against his bruise. God, that fight feels so long ago. He hates how much he’s been crying since then, how easily he’s been shattered along with the wall he spent so long constructing. He’s useless now, used up, and, more than that, he’s terrified. Pete won’t speak to him again, he’s sure of it. What reason would he have after Patrick ran away? What more would there be to say?

Joe tosses his hoodie in Patrick’s direction, saying something about the temperature dropping in the past few hours. Hours? Patrick shudders. Hours since he decided to play like Pete, showing up in just a t-shirt and jeans and pretending it didn’t bother him. Showing up with a smile and acting like he wasn’t breaking inside.

Pretending he wasn’t just an idiot in disguise.

Patrick lets Joe rest an arm over his shoulders, lets him unlock the door and lead him into the cluster of people outside. A girl pushes her way into the emptied restroom, shoving Patrick in her rush. His stomach twists at the contact and he presses closer to Joe, wanting to shut his eyes but knowing he can’t.

“I was actually waiting for you and— For you guys to head back down here so we could get back,” Joe says, rambling in a way Patrick’s grateful for. Anything to distract him; anything to clear his mind. “There’s a pretty pissed cab driver out there waiting, too. But we should be back on the bus in no time, okay?”

Patrick’s voice is faint, barely audible in the crowd. “Okay.”

“And I’m not gonna push you to talk about whatever happened but, if Pete did something, then— Pete?”

“Patrick!”

Patrick freezes at the voice, stumbling to a stop a few feet away from the front door.

No.

He can’t deal with this right now; he can’t deal with this ever.

“Patrick!”

But Pete appears before him anyway.

His clothes are rumpled and his hair’s a mess, eyes wide as he slides to a stop in front of the two boys. He breathes heavily, hands twitching in the air as he reaches for Patrick.

“Look, okay, I fucked up with all of this. I know that. But just talk to me, okay? Please?” Pete begs, stepping closer. Patrick chokes on his breath, caught between moving towards Pete and running away.

Joe makes the choice for him, tightening his hold on Patrick’s shoulders and yanking him back.

“Stay away from him,” he hisses. Pete’s eyes widen but he steps back all the same. “I don’t know what the fuck happened but you’re not getting close until I find out.”

Patrick can tell Pete wants to argue, can tell by the fists at his side and the hardened look in his eyes. It’s not Joe’s place to know, he probably wants to say. It doesn’t involve him.

But Pete doesn’t start a fight. Rather, his eyes find Patrick’s and soften. “Come on… Just a few minutes.”

“Pete,” Patricks says, the word halfway caught in his throat. Still, it’s enough for something like hope to fill the air. Whose, he's not quite sure. “I want… I don’t… I—”

“Just a few minutes,” Pete says again. “I promise, Trick, that’s all.”

Trick

Pete winces as the word leaves his lips. Patrick however, loses all ability to react.

Trick

Something like panic, cold and biting, floods his veins and clenches around his lungs and heart. It’s gone in a moment, rushing to his mind instead and threatening more tears.

It’s enough to have him turn away.

Joe looks down at him, questioning. He doesn’t want him to go with Pete, the fingers digging into his arm saying as much, but Patrick knows the final decision is his own.

Patrick takes a breath. 

Patrick shakes his head.

“Take me back to the bus.”

Joe nods; he leads him away.

And Patrick leaves Pete behind.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Nothing matters right now. But Patrick knows this is merely the beginning of realizing that everything will matter later.

The rumbling of the road beneath the cab lulls Patrick into a sense of security he clings to like an old and favored blanket. It covers him with ragged edges and the scent of home— the scent of somewhere he should know better than to leave. It warms him when Joe tries to get him to talk, not with words but through penetrating glances and confused frowns. It comforts him when he’s ushered out of the car and into the parking lot their bus had been abandoned in. He pulls the feeling closer around his shoulders, enveloping his throat and chin, encasing his arms and hands. He can be numb to this; he will be.

But then he’s inside the bus, Joe’s hand still wrapped loosely around his elbow, and Andy’s staring at them with worried eyes.

“What happened?” He asks, following as Joe helps Patrick to his bunk. The singer’s still shaking, still trembling beneath his touch. No one mentions it. “Where’s Pete?”

“Pete can walk for all I care,” Joe spits, releasing Patrick and turning on the drummer. Andy blinks but doesn’t back down, lips rubbing together before he tries again.

“What happened?”

Joe sighs. “Pete. Apparently.”

Andy stiffens, be it in defense of the bassist or against him. He pauses, eyes searching across Patrick’s silent form as the singer prods at a bruise near his wrist. Patrick glances up in time to see Andy’s eyes narrow, to watch his mind shift from curious to clinical. Typical Andy, always taking the logical approach.

“Are y— Is Patrick alright?” His eyes stay fixed on the boy in question though his words are directed at Joe. “Do I need to do anything to help?”

“I… I don’t know,” Joe gives in, shoulders sagging. He doesn’t expand and Patrick almost quirks his lips at how well that answer would fit any question asked for this situation. 

Of course, Patrick also knows he could— should— be the one to answer either of their questions. He could— should— be able to open his mouth and spout any truth or lie his mind decides is best. Would it be so hard from what he’s done in the past? And would it cause any more harm than he’s already received?

He glances up, taking in their worried eyes and immediately dropping his own.

Perhaps it would. Perhaps it would only add to the harms he’s dealt.

“I got a message from Pete, a while back.” Andy’s voice is background noise, static to Patrick’s buzzing mind. Still, he shakes his head and forces himself to pay attention, staring at a spot on the floor to keep from growing too distracted by his thoughts. “He said he’s taking a cab back. That’s why I’d thought he’d be with you but I guess not. He did say something about Patrick, though. Something about making sure he’s okay when you both get back? So. Are you okay?”

Andy’s words leave no room for question and his tone implies he knows more than he’s let on. Or maybe he’s guessed. Patrick doesn’t doubt he can. Either way, the thought of another lie leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“You heard Joe’s answer to that question,” Patrick says, hoarse and tired. His eyes drag to his bunk, his body relaxing at the thought of sleep and rest. How long has it been since he’s been more excited for sleep than anything else that could happen in this bunk? It would almost be comical if it weren’t so sad. “I don’t know. And that’s the most honest answer you’re gonna get.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

For a moment, as sleep slips away not nearly enough hours later, it’s easy for Patrick to believe that everything was just a dream. It’s easy to pretend, to trick himself. The bus rolls down the road, a gentle murmur against the erratic beating of his heart. Memories— dream scenes— trickle into his mind.

Dreams.

He can pretend they are only dreams.

His eyes open against his will, peeling apart to the reality of bruised skin and an aching heart. His breaths catch in his throat when he tries to move, body sore from activities he’d, for once, rather forget.

I care about you more than you understand

The wheels rumble against the street, a perfect whisper against the ones emanating from the back room of the bus— the same shade as the voice in Patrick’s mind.

The back room.

Patrick’s mind twists, erupting with cruelties and suggestions of what always happens in a back room. Distorted sheets and muffled moans dance through his thoughts like dust in the sunlight, tainting his dream and causing him to cringe with each breath.

It’d be easy to fall back asleep, he thinks, tugging at his own sheets and swallowing around the pain in his throat at the action. He’s still exhausted, weights tied to his eyelids, and his body needs the rest. His mind, though, promises to douse every dream— from reality or fantasy— in kerosene. Pete’s whispering tones carry from the back of the bus to him— whispered sounds but never words, a blessing and a curse— and Patrick can already smell the smoke sizzling across his mind.

Without hesitation, he shoves his sheets aside and tosses himself out of the bunk.

Excuses already take shape in his head, lies that promise others he only needed a bit of tea before fully falling back asleep. He pads quietly towards the front of the bus, that sour taste from before filling the back of his mouth.

Lies. Always lies.

He shoves the word as far from his mind for as long as he can, wishing he could hum to himself but fearing Andy’s or Joe’s arrival at the sound should they wake. Instead, he focuses on his body as he reaches for a tea bag and a mug. He focuses on the way his teeth press lightly around his bottom lip or how his hands shake; he focuses on his slight limp and the way the waistband of his sweats dig into the bruises on his hips.

I don’t need you to take care of me

It’s when he opens his eyes, unaware that he had closed them

You’ll always ruin people

It’s when he feels the weight of the tea bag in his hand, softer than it has any right to be

It’s not my fault you’re only good for the bruises you leave

It’s when his breaths become as relentless as his heart, his thoughts

There’s nothing wrong. Not with me

It’s when the voice in the back room— the whisper of the boy he loves— fades into nothing because his mind is too loud.

I’ve never been a fan of chaos

It’s then that every lie comes crashing back down, avenging itself for the brief time it’d been hidden away.

But not the easy ones, not the lies about asking someone to choke him or having a bass flung into his cheek. Those are the lies he can forget because they don’t matter. They don’t matter so long as no one asks— and who would ask such a thing like that? And who would question the legitimacy of a situation he can see so easily in his mind?

No.

I don’t need you to take care of me.

These are the lies he tried so hard to force into truth.

Patrick gasps silently in the dark, eyes wide and seeing nothing but the mess he created. The mess he welcomed; the mess he told everyone else to clean.

Scenes and words haunt him— his own voice circling his head like dreams. Lies. Lies. Lies. He’s nothing but a liar so why did it take so long for him to notice? Why did it take so long for the weight of his falsehoods to fall?

Pete.

Because Pete never questioned them for longer than a moment, longer than the time it took to pull their dicks out of their pants and forget everything that came before it. Pete never dared pick apart the webs Patrick used to surround himself because maybe he knew Patrick would only spin another tale to turn his head away from the one he’s trailing.

Pete let himself believes the lies. And Patrick can’t even blame him.

A lie only works if someone else believes it, after all. Isn’t that why you can’t spell believe without it?

Because playing pretend only works if someone else is on the joke. Patrick never was, not intentionally.

Pete was. Because Patrick forced him to be.

I don’t need you to take care of me.

Each time he pushed him away with a scowl, always with one more genuine than the last. Each time he embraced the silence of Pete’s concern over the chaos of his emotions. Each time he found the bruises the only worthwhile piece of Pete’s presence— disregarding his smile, his words, his gentle touch… And each time Patrick promised them both that he was okay.

Each time he did this, each time he did this and more, he melded his mask onto his face. He sewed his costume into his skin, all the while blaming someone else’s hands.

Guilt isn’t a foreign concept to Patrick. Still, the pit in his stomach and the heat on his cheeks nearly brings him to his knees.

Oh god… What has he done?

“Huh?” Someone yawns, stepping into the area and invading the thoughts Patrick had used to fill it. Patrick can’t bring himself to move, to blink or glance over, but he knows by the voice that it’s Joe. He’s not sure whether he’s thankful for the company or not. “I thought I heard noise but I didn’t think it’d be you. Damn. I was prepared to fight Pete and Andy for being too loud but I guess I can let you off the hook.”

Patrick takes a breath, still frozen with a white-knuckled grip on a tea bag and a coffee mug.

“Pete and Andy?” He asks, shocking himself with the ability to sound articulate. “Then they’re the ones talking in the back?”

“Yeah,” Joe says, walking around to Patrick’s front and raising an eyebrow. “About you.”

Patrick’s suddenly able to move again, eyes widening and body going rigid at the words. He means to speak, to demand explanation or shout for Pete. The sound he makes, though, caught between a gasp and curse, is more like someone choking on their tongue than anything coherent. Joe’s other eyebrow raises but he says nothing on the reaction.

“Pete wanted to check on you once he got back. He was really worried about… something. Wouldn’t say what.” Joe pauses, choosing his words carefully as his eyes remain on Patrick’s. “But you were asleep and, well, with those bruises and injuries, I decided to puppy guard your bunk until he backed off. I told him to stay away until I knew what the hell happened at that party. From both sides.”

Another pause takes the place of conversation, Patrick blinking with his eyebrows furrowed together. It lasts long enough for Joe to take another step closer, but not long enough for Patrick to realize he should pull away.

“We should talk.”

Patrick doesn’t react, can’t react. He stares at nothing, allowing shadows and dark shades of fear to creep into his vision.

Pete and Andy… talking about him. While he was sleeping, fighting back tears or realizing how wrong this entire situation is. Or, even now. Even now, they’re back there, whispering and trading thoughts about things Patrick can’t even begin to explain.

He knows his eyes are shut but he still feels them searching the darkness for answers. He knows that the bruises on his body must be aching, that his breath must be shaking, but both these sensations have disappeared. What can they be saying about him? What does Pete’s side of the story look like?

How many of Patrick’s mistakes will he condemn, out loud without the ability to take them back? How will Andy and Pete and Joe— when he hears— be looking at him in the morning?

No, it’s safer to keep his eyes closed. It’s safer to filter what comes in and out of his mind, what comes into his sight and what tears leave. It’s easier to hide. It’s always been easier to hide.

“Patrick, come on,” Joe says, tightening his hold on Patrick’s wrist. The fact that his hand is there, and the fact that Patrick didn’t notice, causes his eyes to slam open. Joe pays no heed to the fear found within them and, rather, loosens the tea bag from Patrick’s impossibly tight grip. Leaves like dust scatter onto Patrick’s palms, sticking beneath his nails. Patrick had torn through the bag without even noticing.

Joe says nothing about the harsh action or the soft crescent indents in Patrick’s skin. He merely tosses the tea bag onto a counter and leads Patrick to the couch. The silence— thick and awkward— follows.

Once settled, Joe begins without hesitation. “Pete didn’t tell us, well, me, any details but I feel like I can guess.” He waits, eyes narrowing and mouth screwing up for a second Patrick isn’t sure exists, before continuing. “You two were together, right? Pete implied as much and it makes sense. But he said that things started going bad around the time that guy attacked you. He choked you or something, right? Pete said you started acting sullen or distant and stopped being his friend. And he just wants to know what’s wrong, Rick. If you have some sort of trauma or anxiety, we can help you. You know that, right? Tell us your side. Tell me what happened.”

Lies fill Patrick’s mind. Excuses and stupid claims in defense of his behavior. Lies like giving in and saying some stranger’s hands around his throat triggered such a lasting response. Excuses like stress or exhaustion from the tour. Claims like hating Pete Wentz with his entire heart.

They all fade within an instant and Patrick is only left with the truth.

“What happened?” Patrick repeats Joe’s last words, eyes on his hands as they twist together in his lap. The darkness distorts them into monstrous shapes, helps take his mind far from the conversation he’s diving into. “I… I did something stupid. I did something really stupid.”

And Patrick’s hands freeze, interlocking like a preparation for prayer. Joe says nothing, the only blessing Patrick has had tonight. Patrick takes his time collecting his thoughts, formulating sentences and piecing together the perfect parts of the story.

“We weren’t… We weren’t together like that. Like dating or something,” Patrick says, spitting the word despite the wistfulness he feels at the idea of ever dating Pete. “It was all physical and started around the same time the band really started to take off but it didn’t become anything really solid until a year or so ago. We left a show, both riding the high and— Well. I’ll spare the details.” Patrick calms himself with a breath. Or, at least, he uses the breath to show a semblance of calm. “We never considered ourselves together. Pete had his reasons and they made sense. So it was a benefits thing. Nothing more.”

Stop. Stop talking. That’s all Joe needs to know— all he really asked about, right?

Right, but… Isn’t omission just another lie? Shouldn’t Patrick be done with those by now?

Feeling foolish and, yet, somehow braver than he had before, Patrick carries on. His eyes are staring at nothing and his hands threaten to form those familiar fists but, still, he carries on.

“I don’t regret agreeing to it but… but I probably shouldn’t have. I liked Pete. I liked him a lot and, over time, liking him became, well. It doesn’t sound like it makes sense but… It was— I just—”

“You fell in love with him.”

In the air, somehow, it sounds right.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, tension easing from his body. “I did.”

He did and, though he’s never said it out loud, Joe doesn’t seem surprised. He doesn’t speak but he doesn’t move away, doesn’t gasp or tense like Patrick might have feared he would. Rather, he keeps his breaths even and waits for Patrick to continue.

And Patrick does.

“It was nice, for a while. Like I could have everything I wanted if I just forgot about the actual dating part. We’ve always been close friends, I guess, and Pete can be clingy so we were pretty much together. In my head, at least.” Patrick stops, rubbing the heated skin on the back of his neck and aching for a hat to hide him as both boys’ eyes adjust to the dark. “I mean, I knew it wasn’t real but it felt real and that was all that mattered. Because if I could feel it, some twisted part of my mind could believe it.”

Joe’s words are soft, cutting through Patrick’s heavy breaths with the force of a feather. “It’s not twisted.”

Patrick’s laugh is harsh as he jerks back against the couch, the rough sound grating against his throat like he’s choking. “Yeah, well. You haven’t heard the rest of it. You haven’t even heard the half of it.

“I started to believe that Pete loved me back, Joe. He would be so nice and affectionate and doting that I couldn’t keep from accepting all of my ideas as facts. If he smiled at me randomly, it obviously meant he was thinking about us. If he teased me or joked around, I saw it as flirting. If he tried to split a fucking milkshake with me, all I could think of was how he choose me as his stand-in cliche partner.” Patrick’s hands squeeze each other tightly but no pain emerges, nothing more than shaking fingers. “It was all so twisted.

“And then he brought back that fucking waitress and everything broke. Everything shattered. I was faced with the fact that Pete didn’t love me anymore than he loves every random girl or boy he brings back to a bunk. And I hated it. I hated myself because it just meant I wasn’t good enough.” Patrick’s words begin to blur together, to form shapes rather than sounds as he empties his mind of every thought he’s had since the tour began. Every ugly voice, every cruel sentence… It all flies into the air under the guise of a shuddering word. “But Pete wouldn’t stop treating me special, Joe. He was still so nice and perfect every time we were… we were together. And it just made things worse because, instead of giving me a hint as to what things would be like if we were together, it forced me to realize it was something I would never have. Because Pete would eventually leave and I’m not strong enough to deal with that kind of heartbreak.”

Patrick stops, eyes shut and breaths heavy as he relives the mistakes he’s made. He wishes he could stop, wishes he could tell Joe this is the worst of it, but he knows that he can’t. SHe pauses and allows himself to catch his breath, ignoring the sweat collecting on his brow.

“Patrick,” Joe says, voice stern and concerned. “What happened? What did you— what did you guys do?”

What did I do

Patrick takes his time answering, tilting his head back and opening his eyes with a sigh. A hand raises to his neck and he smiles to himself.

He doesn’t have to continue. He’s under no obligation.

“Do you remember the bruises I had here?” He asks, brushing his fingers across the skin lightly. This time, Joe does tense as if in preparation of having all his questions answered. Patrick can’t keep his smile from growing as he drops his hand and stares into the empty air above him. “It was an attack like… like we told you. But it was because I was being stupid. Trying to get over Pete, trying to be him. It didn’t matter. This guy showed interest in me and I was willing to play along until… until I realized that sleeping with someone else wouldn’t help me get over Pete. I said no and… well. With the bruises, I’m sure you can imagine what happened next.”

Patrick keeps talking over Joe’s squeaky, “what the fuck”, and lets his memories take control of his tale.

“Pete saved me. He heard me shouting and was able to yank the guy off after he saw him with his hands around my neck.” It should feel strange, Patrick thinks, to be admitting something so horrible. Yes, a bit of embarrassment creeps around his skin and lungs but it’s not enough to make him stop. The worst details have been left out, haven’t they? This is just a watered-down version of his life so far. “And, like, it was a terrible experience and I was messed up for a bit after. I couldn’t think or talk to Pete about it but not because I was scared. I was— I was numb. And that’s when things started going to shit.

“I thought I could fix all my problems with it. I could forget about that asshole who touched me and have a constant reminder that Pete and I aren’t meant to be. All it took was getting Pete to hurt me the way… the way that other guy did.”

“Patrick, you—”

“Yeah. Twisted. Didn’t I already say so?” Patrick shakes his head, letting his hands fall back into his lap and his eyes drop closed. “It wasn’t as hard as you’d imagine. I think Pete… I think he thought it was a reaction to what happened. Like, I don’t know, it could help? Get it out of my system and be done with? But all it did was make things worse because everything felt so right.”

“But then things went wrong,” Joe says, interrupting the silence following Patrick’s words. Patrick pauses and then nods.

“Yeah,” he breathes, the word barely existent. “Things went wrong.”

It’s partially a lie because things didn’t go wrong on their own. It’s not like it spiraled out of hand, this system Patrick set up. It’s not like he couldn’t put a stop to it or turn things around the second the bruises became too much. He had enough control to make Pete do what he wanted so why didn’t he use that power to ever ask him to stop?

Why did he let it come to this?

“I started to believe that Pete did what I asked because he wanted to. Because it was something that proved he didn’t love me back. And that made it easier to ask for more… to ask for worse. And I know it’s stupid. It’s meaningless and it never meant anything to begin with but… I went from believing Pete loved me to thinking he never wanted anything to do with me to begin with. Because I forced him to do these things and I tricked him into thinking I wanted it when, really, all I wanted was for… was… was him.” Patrick stops, panting heavily as words tear free from an aching hole in his chest, something empty and hollow but for the painful statements now filling the air. “I thought I found a way to escape the thought that he could love me. And, the really twisted and fucked up part? A part of me still believes it. It believes both fucking versions at the same time and I don’t know how! Tell me how! How can I think so fiercely that he both hates and loves me? How can I be imagining something so insane? And how come I’m not sure I’m ready for either— either— of those to be true? How? Why? Why?”

Patrick’s tremors have traveled from his voice to his entire being, shaking on the couch as a dampness pricks his eyes. He doesn’t blink them away, doesn’t prevent them from falling, too caught up in the hoarse sound of his breath to do anything other than wait.

Wait.

Wait for Joe to tell him how horrible he is.

Wait for the damnation he knows he deserves.

Waits to be told he brought this on himself.

Waits to wake up because only his nightmares have ever felt this real.

“I’m not going to say you were completely in the right in any of that. Or that I understand. I don’t. I don’t know what was going on in either of your heads or why I never noticed. I don’t know what to tell you about how you feel or what Pete’s thinking. I wish I knew. But I don’t.” Joe sighs softly and Patrick finds himself searching for safety in the electric blue of his eyes. Joe doesn’t smile but he doesn’t frown either. He reaches out, a simple action, and places a gentle hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Here’s what I do know. You need… You need to talk to Pete. Tell him your side— and let him tell you his. There’s a lot fucked up in both stories and I don’t know how to overcome it but I do know you need each other to do it.”

Patrick’s shaking his head, biting his lips, trying to pull back.

Joe holds him closer and his next words are stern.

“And you know it, too.”

“No,” Patrick chokes out. “No, I can’t! It’s— It’s like you said, fucked up, and I can’t imagine what he would think. I know I need to talk to him but I… I can’t. Don’t make me do it. It’s only going to hurt and I know I deserve it but, but… Please. Please don’t make me do this. Not now. I… I don’t want him to hate me any more than he already does.”

Somehow, Patrick ends up with Joe’s arms wrapping around him, pulling him until Patrick’s resting his head on Joe’s shoulder. His breaths and words still shudder but Joe’s soft breaths and shushing comforts ease his mind enough for him to stop pleading.

“You don’t need to talk to him now. It’s late and, well, you both need sleep,” he says. “But promise me you’ll talk to him tomorrow. Before tour ends. We can’t have you two hating each other, can we?”

Patrick tenses. Of course, he’s being so selfish. He can’t ignore something that might affect the future of the band. If he and Pete really do end up fighting enough to hate each other— not that Patrick ever imagines hating Pete— it could destroy their careers. It could ruin everything.

“Alright,” Patrick says. “I will. I promise.”

Joe sighs, content, and it’s the end of the conversation.

Patrick’s body and mind relax and, finally, he falls asleep with tears on his cheeks and Joe’s arms keeping him safe.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Light. Warmth. Soreness. Silence.

Morning.

It slips around him like a breath, warming and chilling with each blink of his eyes. Sun streams through the shuttered windows across from the couch he still lounges upon, a crick in his neck and a pinch near the base of his spine. His thoughts follow the same path as the sun, though in reverse. It catches on his own being, focused on rubbing the sleep from his eyes and wiping away the thin trail of drool on the side of his mouth. He stretches, fixing his shirt when it wrinkles and rides up. He runs a hand through his hair; he tries not to remember why his wrists have that pale violet hue around them.

He follows his thoughts as they scan the bus, like the flecks of dust caught in the sunlight’s gaze. It’s empty. Or, at least, it feels empty. No whispers or sign of life. He’s alone and confused— nothing truly new.

He finds the source of the light; he squints out the window to see the sun best he can.

As soon as he sees the outside, he shuts his eyes again.

The bus is stopped.

He’s not sure why it’s such a revelation. They always make random stops without talking about it, be it for gas or stretching their legs. It’s hardly the first time it’s happened.

It is, however, the first time Patrick’s woken to utter silence and stillness. It’s nearly as violent as his own thoughts. It’s nearly enough to make him wish he was asleep again, held safely by his friend without a worry in his mind. He leans back against the couch; he releases a long-held breath.

“Patrick?”

And he sucks all the air back into his lungs as his eyes flash open.

“Pete.”

The air freezes and traps them together, a snowglobe with unspoken fears falling around them.

Pete walks over slowly. There’s a hesitation to his steps; there’s a purpose, as well.

“The others were getting bored so we pulled over at some rest stop just a bit ago,” Pete says, entering Patrick’s vision with an averted gaze. “You slept through all that. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Patrick repeats, his mouth dry as he stares at the seams on Pete’s pants. “And you decided to stay because—”

“Because Joe and Andy decided it might be a good idea for us to talk.”

“ … Obviously.” Patrick huffs a bitter laugh and turns away. “We don’t have to.”

His promise to Joe plays in his mind but it’s not like he has to follow through now. He just woke up, for God’s sake! He needs time to prepare, to think of how to phrase things and how to hide the tears that will inevitably fall. He needs to take a step back, take a breath, and pretend that everything is alright before Pete tries to tell him that nothing is.

“Yes,” Pete says, the floor groaning as he steps forward onto a particularly sensitive spot. Patrick grimaces at the sound, hissing in a breath to cover it as Pete continues towards him. “Patrick, we need to talk.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, what about?” Patrick snaps, at last, glaring up into the other man’s eyes. “Isn’t it easier to pretend nothing happened? Isn’t that what we always do?”

If Pete’s hurt, he hides it with crossed arms and a sigh. “And isn’t that exactly what landed us in this mess in the first place?”

“What mess?” Patrick’s eyes narrow; his hands ball into fists. This conversation is too much, too fast, and he wishes he had stayed asleep.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Pete says, stepping even closer with his own hands shaking. “How about the fucked up switched around mess where I’m the rational one for once? Where we can’t even talk to each other without it being about… about whatever version of sex we had? What about the mess your own head seems to have created? What about the mess you made me make last night? The mess where, apparently, I found out I can’t call you Trick without it being an insult? Which mess do you want to start with? Because there are plenty to choose from, Trick.”

The hostile tone takes Patrick by surprise and he pulls back, pressing himself deeper into the couch, tongue flicking out to run over his dry and cracked lips. When Pete shuts his eyes and holds a hand to the bridge of his nose, it’s too easy to pretend it’s another meaningless fight— another fight about something Patrick already has an excuse for, another fight that will end with a stinging bruise on his cheek.

Pete’s hand falls and he opens his eyes— raw and afraid. It’d be easy for Patrick to ignore the flurry of emotions he finds in them but he’s always been Pete’s interpreter, the translator for the feelings he hides in words and clumsy smiles. Patrick digs his nails into his thigh as he pushes his lips together. Everything— time, air, breath, thought— pauses and they stare at nothing but each other. Despite Pete’s desperate— and since when has Pete claimed the expression of desperation?— eyes begging him to speak, to say something, Patrick’s stomach turns in uneasiness. His skin prickles at the thought of another lie or of speaking the truth again. He’d already torn his insides out the night before; is he really expected to do it again so soon?

Pete breaks first with uneven breaths, loud in the frozen air and only interrupted by the sound of Patrick’s erratic pulse.

“I’m terrified,” Pete whispers quietly into the silence around them. A break in the still, a tiptoe into the chaos because when isn’t Pete Wentz a form of chaos? “Not just of last night but… but everything before it. You scared me with each passing day, retreating into some mental state I couldn’t follow, couldn’t understand even if you could understand all of mine. You kept asking for more without giving me a reason and you wouldn’t listen when I told you to stop. It’s like you had this plan I couldn’t see… this idea that you needed me to hurt you in order for me to like you. I can’t believe you would think that of me! But… But, I guess, I scared myself by giving in so easily to all the stupid shit you asked for because I thought… I trusted that you had good reasons. That you meant it when you said you’d like it and… and even when I noticed that clearly it was fucking hurting you, I couldn’t make myself stop. Even when I realized how messed up you were getting, it was easier to pretend you were alright. Because it was, it seemed, the only way to make you stay. I’m terrified by what happened and I’m terrified I’ll lose you by admitting it.”

It takes a few seconds for Patrick to understand his words and, too suddenly, puzzle pieces he created are torn apart and rearranged. It’s like someone’s turned on that faucet in his mind only to prove no water was ever dripping from it at all, that he was the one sitting on the bathroom floor whispering his emotions— his drip drip drip— to himself. He looks up at Pete once more and feels his body grow cold.

Pete’s trembling hands are fisted in a way that must have his nails digging into his palm. He’s the picture of fear, eyes nervous and jaw tense. He keeps blinking, keeps jolting as if he can’t decide between stepping closer or running away.

He looks honest. He looks terrified. He looks desperate.

Shame, anger, guilt… They rush through Patrick like a drug and he gasps, leaning towards Pete but immediately pulling away. He had always promised to help Pete when he wore that look on his face, when the world grew too scary to understand. He’d promised— he’d sworn on his own life— to protect him from any malicious words his mind or others could toss at him. He’d named himself the strongest defender of Pete Wentz. He said he'd go down swinging.

And then he went and fucked that all up with his own version— twisted and manipulative version— of protecting himself first.

Patrick opens his mouth to apologize but shuts it twice as fast, eyes stinging and cheeks burning as Pete continues to stare. What does he want him to say? How does he want this conversation to go?

It’s not my fucking fault you fell in love with me

“Don’t you dare put this all on me,” Patrick says, choosing his words carefully. The way Pete’s expression remains the same, though his shoulders tense, proves he knows where this is going. “You’re not the only one who was hurting— who was hurt. Do you honestly believe I was trying to hurt you in any of this? I didn’t… I don’t know that you care about me in… in any way other than your best friend. But you knew I lo— you knew how I felt. So don’t pretend I’m the only one in the wrong.”

Silence. It leads Patrick to his feet as anger washes over him.

“So what the hell did you want to talk about?” Patrick shouts, frustration and shame fuelling his words. He’s hurt and furious, rage beating along with his heart as he realizes Pete’s not going to answer him. Though the last rational piece of his mind begs him not to, Patrick steps forward until he and Pete are directly in front of each other. “Because you have it all figured out, don’t you? I needed the pain, the hurt, the humiliation and desperation. Sure, it may have freaked you out but it didn’t keep you from going along with it.”

Finally, Pete reacts. He steps back with an enraged light in his eyes, fire sparking in them dangerously. He splutters for a moment, all earlier show of care and concern gone and replaced with cruelty.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” he snarls. “You really want to tell me you’re upset that I didn’t like hurting you? Isn’t that what made you run off last night? The fact that you were getting concern instead of hate? As long as everyone else acts sorry, you don’t have to explain a damn thing? Admit it, you had a crush and thought that being rough would get me to like you, right? Sure, I could have put a stop to it but it didn’t keep you from fighting each time I tried!”

“I had a crush on you and thought that being rough would make it go away!” Patrick screams, his voice rising in a crescendo of frustration. “I’m sorry for my crush, is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry for thinking that making it feel like you hated me would make it stop. But you can’t blame me for starting this mess in the first place. I wanted a relationship… something fucking real. You decided it was too scary and look where it got us.”

Oh, Patrick knows he’s just as much to blame as Pete, he knows, but the ache of that rejection years ago flares up like a wound never properly addressed. He’s too angry to pay attention to what he says, too desperate to make Pete finally understand every damn thing he did. He wants an explanation? He’ll get it in the worst kind of way.

“It was a crush,” Pete says after a pause filled only by his wounded expression. He frowns, breathing heavily. “It would have passed. I did what was best for us. For you. I had to make the best decision I could with the least amount of damage. Nothing that came after was my fault. I’m not to blame for that.”

It sounds too much like his words from their last big fight— the ones where he shook off any blame for Patrick’s affections. Anger rises hot in Patrick’s throat as he processes the words.

“You said it’d be too chaotic,” Patrick snaps, his fists shaking at his side. “I had to… I had to accept nothing from you. Just silence and, and, and emptiness. I had nothing.”

Pete’s eyes burn with every word Patrick wishes he would say. Every word he chokes down and replaces with another cry, another version of the lies they’ve shared. “I had to keep from hurting you. Can’t you see any of that, Patrick? Fuck, it would have been so easy to mess you up! To drag you into the shitshow my relationships always are and then bail. Don’t tell me you wanted what everyone else got.”

“I wanted honesty and sincerity. I wanted a place where I could feel the way I felt without being afraid,” Patrick spits. “And, besides, didn’t you end up hurting me anyway?”

“Only because you wanted me to!” Pete shouts. Patrick’s body tenses, rage telling him to throw a punch, to shout an insult, to tell another fucking lie.

He does the one thing he should have done long ago.

“Only because I loved you!” He screams. 

Screams.

And then he pauses, the truth still sticking to his lips as his fists unfurl at his side. His breaths are heavier than Pete’s, his stance loosening as the words hit the air. “Only because I love you and I can’t deal with it if you don’t feel the same. And being with you? Sleeping with you? It felt too fucking real to ignore so… so I had to make it feel like what it really was— something stupid you would eventually turn your back on. You were going to leave me and, and, like, I— I had to make it hurt, Pete. I couldn’t stop you from leaving but I could control what kind of pain I felt. I could control the bruises.”

Silence. Stillness. Shaky breaths and uncertain eyes.

“I love you,” Patrick says again, his voice steadier than it’s been in weeks. “I did it all because I love you.”

They both know it, both have known it, but it sounds different in the air. It sounds solid, real, tangible. Like Patrick can reach out and take the words back, can crush them in his fist the way Pete’s done to his heart for so long. He wants to hide them in his pocket until enough time has passed for their weight to become bearable. He wants to toss them back in time with the hope his past self would do better with a second chance.

He thinks back to that day, that night, when he and Pete first kissed. His back pressed against a wall, his lips pressed against Pete.

Pete had initiated that kiss, had leaned forward first with desperate impatience. The cold air had stung Patrick but not as much as the heartstrings being pulled with each movement of Pete against him. Tongues danced against each other with the clumsiness that mars every couple’s first kiss, hands fluttering and finding any part of the other’s body. Tugging each other close, never pushing away. Pete had started it. Pete had ended it.

Or was he just hoping Patrick would stop it all before it got that far?

Patrick wants to tangle his hands in the messy words between them and toss them back in time.

Say them the first chance you get, he wants to tell himself. If you’re gonna fuck this up, at least do it in a normal way.

He wants anything but this silence.

Silence.

Stillness.

Hushed breaths and watering eyes.

Pete looks like he expects Patrick to say something else, like he’s waiting for more explanation that what he’s been granted. But doesn’t he have enough? Wasn’t that confession— punched out like so many teeth, emotions spewing from his mouth rather than blood— enough?

It feels like it should be a life-changing moment. But no one moves and everything stays the same.

And then Pete speaks, a simple ripple in the frozen air. A sign of life, of hope.

Of chaos.

“I love you, too,” he says. Simple. Devastatingly simple. “You… You have to know that, right? You can’t not know that.”

A ripple in the frozen air— No. A crack. A tremor and a fracture that Patrick can’t step away from even as the water begins to collect around his ankles.

Like an overflowing faucet.

Patrick tugs at a loose string on the hem of his shirt until it comes free, fluttering in the air before he closes his fingers around it. He twists the string between his fingertips, debating how real it is. Real. Fake. True. False.

Pete steps forward once again, just an inch, but it’s enough for Patrick’s meaningless memento to drop.

Pete speaks the second the thread hits the ground.

“How can you ever believe that I wouldn’t love you? Everything I’ve done to you— with you, without you— was because of you. For you. Always.” Pete pauses, takes a breath. It’s something Patrick can no longer do. “But you’re my best friend. You’ve always been my best friend and you always will be and it means so much that you are but it also means that you know how shitty my relationships can get. Whenever I do anything more than hook up with someone, I never know how long it’s going to last. I can only guess at which one of us will be left more damaged.”

Patrick’s heart restarts, pounds in his chest with the ferocity of an animal tearing apart a set of drums. He can barely focus on Pete’s words but he hears them loud and clear.

Pete takes Patrick’s hands as the singer tries to step away, the edge of the couch brushing against the back of his legs. A warning, a trap.

A reason to let Pete squeeze his hands and step even closer.

“I couldn’t take the risk that you would be the one left damaged, Patrick. Never. You’re… You’re someone special. Someone I’ve never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to meet.” Pete’s smiling, not fully but enough for the room to warm. Enough for some ice to melt. Patrick glances down and shuts his eyes, swallowing around the strange knot-shaped lump in his throat. When Pete speaks, Patrick can hear the same struggle in his words. “Great job I did, right? You got hurt anyway. Damaged. Bruised and fucked up because I couldn’t see what was going on. Because I thought it would be easier to hide those fucking feelings away then realize how much that would ruin both of us. Because I didn’t want to say—”

“Why didn’t you say it?” Patrick interrupts, cutting in because he fears his mind may explode if it’s forced to contain anymore storming thoughts. They— his dreams and hopes and fears and insecurities— break into his mind like thunder, overwhelming every other sense. “If you… If what you’re saying is true… If… It means that you knew that I cared about you. You knew that all I wanted… all I wanted was for you to love me in the same way I love you. To stop with the games and every other meaningless idea tossed in between us. I just… I wanted you and you could have given in. Why didn’t you? Why put us through this? What good did it do?”

Patrick’s voice is back to shaking, trembling so thoroughly his words distort into broken sobs and aching gasps. The lump in his throat screams in pain and anger but he keeps swallowing it down, fighting back tears but feeling the sting in his eyes all the same.

“It put off the inevitable,” Pete says with a bitter chuckle, more a breath than a laugh. “Don’t ever believe that it didn’t hurt me to bite back those words each night, too, Patrick. To look you in the eye and know what you wanted, to promise myself never to give in. I wanted to hold onto you as long as possible without dragging you into the mess of media and speculation and my own personal brand of fuck up. I was selfish. I wanted you at my side but… but I knew that keeping you there had to have a price. Things don’t work out like fairy tales for me.” His hands tighten around Patrick’s, painfully so for just a second. Just long enough for Pete to wince and loosen his grip once again.

“There wouldn’t have been a price,” Patrick breathes. But Pete’s already shaking his head before the words are out.

“Look at what happened to us, Patrick! Look at your bruises and cuts and think of how many things went wrong! I should have stopped this long ago. I shouldn’t have ever started it to begin with. I just dragged you down like I always do and you deserve better, you deserve—”

“I deserve the truth. No more lies just... just the truth. We deserve the truth,” Patrick says, still not meeting Pete’s eyes. “So, tell me. Do you really mean everything you’re saying? All of it? Like, you’re not just saying it as, like, a friend that’s way too concerned? Because you don’t need to pretend to like me just because of the bruises. I’m over them and… and I’m tired of playing games. I just want to know what to believe this time.”

Silence.

Pete’s hand finds Patrick’s jaw, cupping lightly and bringing his eyes back up to meet his own.

“Believe that I love you,” he says, so softly all the ice left between them shatters. “Believe that I always will.”

A prickling sensation spreads across Patrick’s body and he wants to believe Pete’s words— wants to believe it so badly it hurts. But it could just be the bruises acting up, he tells himself. He tells himself not to forget why those bruises exist, what they’re supposed to remind him of, what they’re supposed to do. It’s nearly enough to bring him to his knees.

But then Pete’s hands are gone, a moment of cold, before slipping around his waist. Holding him up, holding him close, promising nothing but the words he says.

“I love you,” Pete says again, as if he can’t say it enough. As if he’s had the words hidden just as long as Patrick— if not longer. He leans in close, their breath mingling as Patrick gasps and heaves for air that doesn’t seem to exist. Air that escapes each time Pete whispers words he shouldn’t know, words he should never speak in front of Patrick. Words that promise hope and heartbreak, tears and joy. Patrick’s heart pounds and he looks into Pete’s eyes and

Too much. Too close. Too fast. Too soon.

Maybe it’s the anticipation curling in his gut and wrapping around his lungs. Or maybe it’s fear, fear of heartbreak or another cruel joke, constricting around his heart and heating up his veins. Maybe it’s the fact that none of this makes sense. None of this is in the script he’s so carefully followed for years.

“Pete,” he breathes, his breath ghosting along Pete’s lips.

And Pete’s lips are so close. Too close. Dancing the line between over- and underwhelming. Tiptoeing on too much too fast too close too soon and I love you, too, I love you.

Patrick shuts his eyes.

“Pete…”

And the door to the bus slams open.

Pete steps back before Patrick fully opens his eyes again, a hand lingering on his hip but all other touch is gone. The words between them escape into the free air, creating an atmosphere of raw emotions as the other members of the band walk on. Joe’s cursing takes the place of Patrick’s ragged breaths; Andy’s footsteps replace the beating of Pete’s heart, the rhythm Patrick had felt when they’d been chest-to-chest. Patrick reaches for Pete’s hand before he can pull it away, begging without words for proof that the moment they had still means something— still means everything.

Pete tugs Patrick to his side, squeezing his hand three times. I love you. Wordless and in the presence of others, the phrase isn’t as anemic as Patrick had feared it would become.

The door to the bus slams shut. Breaths suck in and out.

Silence.

“So,” Joe says, drawing out the word and breaking the stillness. “I assume you talked.”

Patrick can’t move, caught in the revelations of seconds before. Pete answers for them, a sharp nod and a certain “yeah”.

Andy steps forward, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “And everything’s fine?”

“Y-Yeah.” Pete’s a little less sure about that one but his grip on Patrick’s hand fails to falter.

A second passes, the eyes of their bandmates flicking to their entwined hands and back up to their flushed faces.

Joe frowns. “Are you two… together?”

Terror fills Patrick’s gut like acid.

He wants it. He wants the answer to be a definite yes, a resounding affirmation that he’s achieved his goal in life. He wants to nod, to smile, to be sure that everything has a happy ending.

But

Too much too fast too quick too soon

They hadn’t even finished their conversation. And Patrick feels the topic deserves more time than this.

“We’re… We’re not,” Pete says after glancing at Patrick for less than a second. He tightens his grip; he steps closer but keeps his tone distant. “We’d need to talk about it. We need more time.”

Patrick lets out a breath, eyes slipping shut in relief.

This… This is fitting. This is peaceful.

This is the opposite of the chaos he was promised and, yet, he can’t bring himself to hate it one bit.

Still, a piece of his chest feels hollow when he nods along, agreeing with Pete’s word. A portion of him aches to press close, to find the piece of Pete that fits with him and never let go.

He tucks away those thoughts for later, the easiest task he’s ever done.

They have time. He has time.

He doesn’t need to figure it all out now. Not as long as Pete’s holding his hand, not as long as Pete’s declarations linger in the air like garlands. Like promises.

Joe looks to Patrick, eyebrows furrowed and mouth a worried line. “Are you su—”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “We have… We have time to figure it all out later. We’re gonna talk about it but… but, for now, we need to focus on the tour.”

“The tour?” Joe’s frown deepens. “So then what happens after?”

Patrick grins, the feeling foreign but nice. “I don’t know. But I think it’ll be nice to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment or drop by hum-my-name on tumblr to talk. :)
> 
> Also, this story is so close to done? I can see the finish line from here, oh my goodness. It's been a long time coming and I'm so excited to start the other stories I have planned. Hope to see you there, as well!


	17. You're [not] What I Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for parallels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! So, since we're getting so close to the end, the chapters seem to be way shorter than the usual. I mean, this is still a bit lengthy-- maybe?-- but it still feels pretty short. I can't tell if it's a subconscious attempt to keep from parting with this fic or if there really is just so little left between the end and now. Either way, I hope you enjoy!!

 

The next shows and remaining nights are stranger than they have any right to be. A static silence replaces the curling anxiety Patrick’s become used to; the air, unchanging but so restless, takes the place of every conversation they should have had by now.

It’s been a few days, a few nights, and Pete still hasn’t spoken to Patrick about those words they exchanged. 

Patrick’s done telling himself he’s not terrified.

He knows he can just as easily begin the conversation, sit down next to Pete on the bus and say “hey, about me loving you” but the idea leaves a fight-or-flight response in his veins. He’s conditioned himself to fear confrontation. He’s prepared to pretend it didn’t happen. 

Though, when it first fell, Patrick stared at the silence in disbelief; for a moment, paranoia descended upon him again. 

The first night after their confessions, the show where Patrick assumed all would change, Pete had stayed on his side of the stage, smiling at the crowd but never at him. Patrick had tried to fix it after, to rush back into normality and friendship on the bus. He’d smiled and joked but Pete hadn’t stayed, hadn’t reciprocated the attempts.

Patrick wanted things to go back to the way they were but time, he’s found, does not move in a circular fashion. Instead of forgetting about each wound, Patrick finds himself reaching to press on bruises that refuse to disappear. He still stays up late, waiting for Pete to crawl into his bunk and initiate another way to break both their hearts. He still bristles with fear anytime a blushing boy or grinning girl presses up against Pete after a show, tempting him back to their beds and hearts. 

It’s the break-up Patrick had been fighting so hard to avoid; it has to be. And Patrick doesn’t feel as broken as he’d first imagined; he just feels lost. He doesn’t know what’s left of them, but he does know what’s gone.

A few nights pass. Joe tries to start concerned conversations, conversations Patrick ducks away from. Andy distracts him with drum discussions and ramblings about the vegan lifestyle. 

And Pete merely gives him space.

Patrick leans to play along with the feigned happiness.

Everyone else has their script. It’s not their fault Patrick thought it was safe to throw away his own.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The back room becomes a refuge over time, over a few days. It’s an irony Patrick would rather forget.

Tonight, he’s practicing for the last show, blaming the panic in his gut on the clumsiness of acoustic songs and turning his head from any other reason he’d feel afraid. He’s playing as quietly as he can, an acoustic guitar balanced precariously across his lap and his foot just barely tapping out the beat. He keeps his voice low when he sings the lyrics and he even has his back to the door so the sound won’t carry out to bother anyone else.

It’s a routine he’s perfected. Practicing, always practicing, and never expecting anyone else to join in.

Still, when the door opens with the smallest of clicks, Patrick’s not too surprised to see it’s Pete. 

Surprise, though, is not synonymous with fear. And, as Pete walks over to the bed with soundless steps, Patrick’s heart begins to race out of time with the song; his sweating hands trip over the strings. It’s the same reaction to something new, something he never had the chance to learn. A month ago, he’d drop the guitar and fall to his back, let Pete crawl on top of him in the way they both claimed to love. Now, he merely holds the guitar tighter to his chest and looks to Pete with widened eyes.

No one speaks, though Pete licks his lips as if in preparation of words, and Patrick can only imagine what he wants to say. The street outside— the cars, the people, the rumbling of the road— grows infinitely louder, taunting the lingering silence.

Pete keeps walking, until his legs brush the bed, until he’s kneeling on the mattress and Patrick’s heart is more blatant than the outside world. This is it— the talk. It has to be. The moment Patrick finds out if happily ever afters exist; the moment Patrick can test out those three words in a more intimate setting. 

He loosens his grip on the guitar, shaking fingers aching as they uncurl, and Pete drops to his side.

Patrick’s widened eyes follow the action.

“Pete?” He asks. Pete merely grunts, squirming across the bed until he’s curled by Patrick’s side and resting his head by the singer’s hip. “Pete, come on. What are you doing back here? It wasn’t just to interrupt my practice was it?”

Pete tosses a hand onto Patrick’s thigh, earning an undignified yelp from the other man. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he mutters, burying his face in the warm cloth of Patrick’s sweats. Hesitance paints his actions but his voice is as clear as it’s always been. “I always sleep better when you’re here.”

Perhaps it should terrify Patrick, send his stomach into knots and butterflies at the connotations he’d use to hear. Maybe he should hate how the conversation’s been avoided once more. 

Instead, relief and calm fill him. He lets out an effortless breath.

“Sounds fair,” Patrick says, reaching to run his fingers through Pete’s hair but pulling back last second. Too close, still. Too much. He doesn’t want to step over any boundaries before they’re made. His fingers rush back to the guitar, dancing across the strings but playing nothing. “I’m guessing I should put this away then—”

“No,” Pete interrupts, shaking his head. “Play for me… Please.”

And Patrick has never been able to say no.

His fingers land on chords; his voice finds words.

This time, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Pete may not want a conversation, he may not want to talk.

But they’ve never shared their feelings in such a mundane fashion before anyway.

Patrick shuts his eyes and begins to sing.  _ “I’m good to go…” _

Maybe he’s imagining it, but Patrick swears he feels Pete smile.

This is it. This is their talk. This is one true version of genuine they ever agreed on.

This time, Patrick’s voice doesn’t waver; fears don’t clog his throat. And Pete doesn’t pull at him, doesn’t change the words last minute; he looks to Patrick with a smile in his eyes. His holds Patrick, wrapping his arms around the younger’s waist and waiting. Waiting for the song to end. Waiting for Patrick to smile back.

Waiting for Patrick to sing the part of “me and Pete”, to make that choice himself, to say everything his own words never could. 

Patrick whispers lyrics of youthful innocence, lyrics of an afterlife neither of them took the time to understand. He sings of every open door they tried to shut.

And, when he sings of “me and Pete”, no one is there to say that lyric is for anyone other than them. 

Entire lyrics, an entire song, written only for moments like these.

“ _ Saturday _ ,” Patrick sings, words tearing through his being like whispers held in for too long, like secrets he should have shared. It’s a song he sings nearly every night but has he ever listened to the lyrics? Has he ever let it feel truly free? He sings the final Saturday and wonders if he ever knew the meaning to begin with.

“ _ Saturday _ ,” he says, the song coming to a close, the guitar slipping from his hands and gracefully onto the floor. “ _ Saturday.” _

And silence falls, the silence after any performance, the moment between song and applause.

Pete grins, tired. 

“As lovely as ever,” he says. “I love it.”

And it’s all the ovation Patrick can ask for as he smiles back and falls to rest next to Pete. 

Here’s Pete, giving them back their hope, smiling in ways he hasn’t done in days. Here he is, telling Patrick he loves the song, their song. Telling Patrick he understands.

That’s good enough now.

More than good— it’s the only thing Patrick wanted to hear.

He curls up next to Pete, shifting so they’re eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose. It’s a tad awkward and more than a bit intimate but no one complains. Pete pulls Patrick into his arms and shuts his eyes. Moments later, as the warmth of both their bodies seeps into the bed and the final notes of the song ring out, Patrick shuts his as well.

Maybe minutes pass; maybe hours or years follow. Patrick’s lost track of time. He only knows he might be dreaming, might be sleeping, when Pete’s lips press into his hair with a tender kiss.

“You and me,” Pete whispers, sending shivers down Patrick’s spine. “You and me, forever.”

Patrick might be sleeping, might be dreaming, but he smiles anyway and lets that word fill his head.

_ Forever _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

When Patrick wakes, he’s not entirely convinced he didn’t dream the entire scene. The other side of the bed is bare, no heat left to convince him Pete was ever there. He panics, a familiar feeling, and shuts his eyes again.

_ Forever _

No. He knows that was real. 

His demons won’t win this morning. Nightmares have no right to linger when only dreams existed last night.

With this thought in mind— this new confidence and reassurance— Patrick stretches and yawns away the last tantalizing bits of sleep. The sounds of life beckon him out of bed and towards the outer world. 

Patrick stands and prepares to face it.

He only makes it three steps into the bunk area, though, before he runs into Joe.

Concerned, suspicious Joe.

“Hey,” Joe says, voice low and body blocking Patrick’s chance of pushing past. “You overslept… again. We’re a few hours out from the venue.”

“Oh, okay,” Patrick says, shifting back away from Joe’s narrow-eyed look. 

Joe waits, fingers twitching at his side. “You sleep well?”

“Um, y-yeah,” Patrick says, eyebrows furrowing together. “Um… You?”

“Sure,” Joe says, crossing his arms and dropping his voice to a secretive murmur. “We  _ all  _ slept well, I’m sure.”

“Okay, then, so I’ll—”

“But not all of us slept together.” Joe raises an eyebrow. “If you know what I mean.”

“If I… Together?” Patrick’s sleep-addled brain fights to clear the fog, to make meaning of Joe’s words. It takes longer than it should but when he does understand, he stumbles back with widened eyes. “What the fuck? That didn’t happen!”

“I heard Pete sneak back,” Joe says, head tilted. “I’ve been expecting it, to be honest, so don’t be embarrassed by—”

“Joe. No,” Patrick says as clearly as he can. “We didn’t… It wasn’t… God, trust me, we aren’t ready for that.”

Joe’s other eyebrow raises to join the first, his hands falling to his side. “You’re telling the truth.”

It isn’t phrased like a question but an answer is all Patrick can give. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Joe’s lips purse and he steps back, eyebrows furrowing together and a slight hum filling the air before he speaks again. “Why not?”

“Dude,” Patrick groans, feeling a blush rise to his face. “I really don’t want to discuss this with you. I just woke up, give me a chance to prepare for any sex talk.”

“Ew, no. I’m not asking for details,” Joe says, nose wrinkling. “I’m just saying that you’ve been wanting to be with Pete for a while, right? Well, there’s nothing stopping you from going for it now. I mean, you know he wants you and he knows you want him. What’s stopping it?”

He has a handful of good points, points Patrick’s sifted through himself. Why haven’t they taken that step? Why are they forcing themselves to wait longer? What is supposed to happen next if not a flurry of lips and lust?

Those questions, he feels, were answered by one song last night.

“It’s not what we want,” Patrick says, confident. “It’s not what we need.”

“Ah.” Joe doesn’t seem to entirely understand but he nods all the same. “So, what you do want is…”

“A second chance.” Patrick nods to himself. The bus bounces over a bump in the road but Patrick stays put, balanced and smiling softly at nothing. “Before any of this… Before the fuck-ups and misunderstandings, I was supposed to be Pete’s friend. His best friend. And, hey, it might be, like, a step backward to some people but, really, what I want is to go to that. To find our way to something  _ naturally _ . I don’t want it to happen because we had this really fucking awful experience. It needs to be because we want it at the same time and the right time. I think… I know that’s the only way for this to work out.”

Joe nods again, more understanding than before. “I can respect that.” 

Patrick finds his eyes and lets his smile grow. “I’m glad.”

It’s in the next moment of silence, the second of thought, that Pete peeks his head back into the bunk area with a cheeky smile and curious eyes.

“Hey, guys,” he says. “I’ve got coffee out here if anyone wants some.” 

Patrick can’t help his grin, hesitant as it is. “We’ll be right out. Thanks for… Thanks for the thought.”

Pete smiles back and, this time, butterflies take off in Patrick’s stomach. “Well, hurry up. I finally got that damn machine working and I think I made it just the way you like.” 

“I’m sure you did,” Patrick says fondly, watching as Pete’s smile grows. He doesn’t have the chance to appreciate it for long, though, as Pete ducks back out with a call for Andy to help him shut the coffee machine off. Patrick chuckles.

“It’s weird,” Joe says, eyes on the spot Pete had just been. “Like, no offense, but it’s weird how your guys’ relationship works. I swear, I can’t tell if you two are having troubles or just playing hard to get.”

If only Joe knew Patrick felt exactly the same way. He shrugs, the last of his chuckles fading into a sigh. 

It is strange, stranger for Patrick because he should have an answer for this. Sure, there were answers last night— hope and promise and joy— but was there more than that? Was there a bridge between distance and flirting, between then and now, between the hurt and the comfort?

_ Forever _

Patrick’s body goes warm.

Of course, there was.

“We both fell into this horrible mess,” Patrick explains though he knows he doesn’t need to. “It’s gonna take more than a few days to recover from. On both sides. But, when the time comes, I trust everything will be fine.” 

Only the smallest of doubts prod at the back of his mind, doubts that have always been there and may always be. He brandishes the thought of Pete’s smile to keep them at bay. These fears are nothing new. The worries—  _ will Pete follow through, am I enough, will we be happy—  _ are enough to make him flinch but they’re harmless compared to what they could be. None of them, at least, have him reaching for a bruise that barely exists anymore.

Joe’s eyes scan him, perhaps watching these fears play across his face. 

“You’re a great guy,” he says. “Everything’ll be fine.”

Patrick nods. He lets Joe’s words— his reassurance and confidence— take the place of those doubts. “Yeah.” Things will be fine.  

Beneath his feet, the bus drives on and the road snakes by like memories. Wheels rotate like his thoughts; dirt and pebbles and rubble no one knows of appearing and leave without a thought.

Beneath his feet, a past fights to keep up.

Beneath his feet, a future steadily begins to approach. 

  
  
  
  





  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT WAS SO SHORT
> 
> Seriously. I apologize for the shortness. But, please, leave a comment if you liked it! Or a comment if you didn't, haha. Whatever you want to say works :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Have an awesome day/night!


	18. You're So [not] Predictable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another short one before the last one :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is short. But I think that just shows how little we have left. Because, oh, by the way, the next chapter is the last one (excluding an epilogue). So. Savor this. If it's any good that is.
> 
> (This is the part where I pray that I have most/all of my strings tied up in my outline, haha)
> 
> Enjoy!

In the middle of their last show, in the middle of a lyric, Patrick thinks, were he a poet, the night would best be described a bit like this:

_Lights. Music. Singing._

_Fans. Cameras. Screaming._

_Pete._

_Patrick._

_Action._

Patrick finishes the word he’s on, reaches for a chord with a smile and a shake of his head. He’s not the poet in this group.

For once, he plays without nerves in his blood or bruises on his throat. He shakes away lingering fears, grinning in a way that feels familiar yet new. Lost, perhaps. A grin he’s been forgetting to wear.

Pete stays on his own side of the stage, jumping in place and bouncing up to the edge. He doesn’t come near Patrick, something fans have been noticing if the online forums are to be trusted, but confusion no longer clouds the space between. Patrick’s life isn’t on a stage; it’s not for anyone else’s benefit. If Pete wants to keep his distance while they’re playing, so be it. He’s close enough at night, anyway.

Besides, stages are for masks and characters. Patrick’s alright with leaving both behind.

They finish the song. They wait in the cheering of the crowd. Patrick plays a few familiar chords.

And then he begins to sing.

“I’m good to go—” The crowd screams the rest louder than he could ever hope to.

Verses pass in a blur; the chorus is lost to bittersweet memories and a nostalgia for one night only. Before long, Pete’s in the crowd, his shirt suddenly missing, and Patrick allows himself a glance.

Tan skin, glistening with sweat and broadcasting the temptation of all those tattoos. Dark hair— ebony, pitch-black, tangled and frizzing— falls over a smile, a smile wrapping around lyrics written for two. 

Patrick’s heart pounds as he sings and, unlike every other time, it’s not from any form of stage fright.

He steps back from the mic, nodding at the crowd. He scans over them, the kids and teens screaming their hearts out with hands in the air and breathless smiles on their faces. A smile he returns. A smile he basks in. A smile he feels deep in his soul.

And a smile he sees reflected on Pete’s face when their eyes inevitably meet.

Breathless. Beautiful.

The mic isn’t in Pete’s hand anymore; it’s been pushed into some kid’s, the audience shouting into it as one. Pete balances atop them, among them, with the aid of their security, hoisted into the air like a hero.

A hero. Then what does that make Patrick if he’s the only one Pete’s looking at now?

Wide-eyed browns soar to meet baby-blues, dancing along to the music with a twinkle like stage lights inside. 

Time slows.

Patrick opens his mouth to sing, praying he has breath left in his lungs.

“Me and—”

“ _ Trick _ ,” he sees Pete mouth, the word distorted by the smile but so obviously there. 

_ Me and Trick _

If Patrick were a poet, he’d be able to say or sing the words he needs to, the lyrics to finish the song. He'd be able to describe with his own voice the semi-sweet shock, the half-melted fears of what that name used to mean. The full-hearted joy at what it can mean now.

If he were a poet, he'd be able to continue singing pretty words without a hitch in his voice.

But he’s not and he doesn’t. 

What he is, is in love. And the only thing he has left to give the audience is a smile brighter than they’ve ever seen.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The bus ride to the hotel is nothing but a blink. The night at the hotel is merely a moment of dreams, of sleep, of exhaustion weighing down tongues and minds. Pete had led Patrick to their room where they could be alone but one look had faded their eagerness.

“Not yet?” Patrick had asked, a sweet-and-sour tone in the air. Pete had nodded, one short twitch of his head.

“Soon.”

“Right.”

And then it’s morning. Cab rides and more fatigue. Patrick resists the urge to lean his head against Pete’s shoulder, perking up only when the airport comes into view. A symbol for coming and going, a message that it’s time to go their separate ways. Everyone to a different city, a different state. What will it mean when he’s in Chicago and Pete’s in L.A.? 

Patrick swallows before his heart can get caught in his throat. 

As always, Pete leads the charge— though he, of course, is only following their security— and takes the brunt of paparazzi camera flashes with an easy grin. Seemingly easy, at least. Only Patrick can tell how tired it is.

It’s a feeling Patrick relates to, Joe and Andy peeling away to find their flights. Only Pete and Patrick are left. Only Pete, Patrick, and the fear brimming in Patrick’s mind.

Distance is supposed to make the heart grow fonder but what does it do to memories? What if Pete forgets what they’ve said, what they feel? What if he never follows through on the confessions they both shared?

Or, and this is the one that scares Patrick most, what if he’s changed his mind? A mutual understanding in place of requited love, an ambivalent friendship in place of an unpredictable relationship.

Silence in place of chaos.

Pete stops walking, stepping further ahead of Patrick to allow room for a family to pass. Patrick glances out the window as they wait. A plane in the distance draws nearer, close enough to pluck out of the sky like a low-hanging fruit. 

More people appear, taking advantage of the space Pete’s left, rushing to their planes as Pete looks on with a thin smile. It’ll be rough to make their way back into the flow of people and Patrick sighs.

The sound, though, is cut short when a taller man— broad and dark-haired, eyebrows drawn low over hard eyes— bumps into Patrick as he hurries past.

For a moment, Patrick sees nothing. And then he sees

_ —alley walls and a body against his. Dark hair, angry eyes, a hand around his throat with the promise of Pete in the distance but not close, never close enough. Pete, please, please, please, let me breathe and— _

Patrick blinks and his hand is wrapped in Pete’s hoodie, their shoulders pressed together as Patrick catches his breath and finds his footing. 

“Sorry,” he says, dropping his hand and moving away, a different fear pounding on his nerves. “Sorry, I just…”

He trails off, the heavy weight of Pete’s gaze pinning the words down on his tongue.

_ Stupid, how stupid and embarrassing and— _

Pete’s hand wraps around Patrick's; Pete pulls him back to his side.

“You’re safe, okay?” Pete smiles, though it seems to be hiding something more. “You won’t get hurt again.”

Patrick scoffs, turning with red cheeks to face the plane he’d seen before. When he glances at the window, however, the plane has already landed and he feels a childish urge to pout about it. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “And it’s not like I was hurt too badly before, anyway.”

He expects for it to be shrugged off, for Pete to sigh and maybe drop his hand.

Instead, the grip tightens and Patrick feels eyes on him, as obvious as the catch in his breath when he looks over.

Patrick doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to torture himself with the sight, but he already knows where Pete’s gazing. His throat, his wrists, his cheek… For all his fears of being forgotten, right now, he knows exactly what Pete's remembering.

“Last night, on the bus, I remembered something I said. Something horrible, when we were fighting. Before I—” Pete’s eyes twitch towards Patrick’s cheek and then down. “I said that it wasn’t my fault—”

“It’s not my fault you fell in love with me,” Patrick quotes, taking note of Pete’s soft flinch.

“Yeah,” Pete says, looking out at the planes loading and unloading outside. “Well, I wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t… It isn’t my fault you somehow love me.” A pause, a turn for Patrick to flinch. Pete continues without notice. “But it is my fault that you got hurt along the way. It’s my fault it wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.”

“Don’t pretend it wasn’t my fault, too,” Patrick says, looking down to their entwined hands. The words are nearly lost in the crowded airport but it still echoes in Patrick’s mind. “I was the one who decided it would be fun to play around with the idea of hurt.”

Pete takes a breath, pulling Patrick’s hand and eyes up to his face. Up to his lips.

With the pressure of an unspoken word, an unuttered phrase, Pete presses a kiss to Patrick’s knuckles.

“If I have any say in it,” he promises, “you will never be hurt like that again.”

Patrick grins gently, a shudder on his skin; Pete holds on tighter than before.

They don’t drop their hands until their plane tickets force them in opposite directions.

And Patrick doesn’t look away until Pete is lost in the crowd.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Bags fall from Patrick’s hands in front of an empty house. His breaths are soft as he searches for his keys; the house is nothing but quiet as he steps inside.

Everything is different when he’s away from the road. Everything somehow feels new and old all at once as knickknacks and left-behind messes make themselves known.

Everything is the absence of chaos.

There’s no shouting, no constant chatter decorating the backdrop. Nothing rumbles beneath his feet as he walks around. No one calls for his attention or time.

No one and nothing is there to remind him of Pete. And, somehow, that means everything does.

The couch is a lack of Pete sprawled across it, a notebook in his lap and a pen stuck between his teeth. The kitchen is a void where Pete should be, leaning against the counter, complaining about their lack of snacks. The floor in front of the TV is a deficiency; the bedroom is an aching vacancy.

The spot at Patrick’s side is a drought. Nothing drips but everything yearns.

Time passes, enough for Patrick to distract himself with unpacking and settling in. Time passes, but not enough for him to forget whatever promises were left between him and Pete. 

Between the “me and Trick” Pete spoke about, wrote about.

It’s dark, silent, nearing midnight when Patrick runs out of ways to clear his mind. He thinks of going to sleep but it’s always difficult after a tour. No background noise or company. No reason to look forward to a show happening the next day. 

He ends up on the couch instead, with a cup of tea and a book he’s pretending he’ll read. He pointedly ignores the teabag as he shifts around until he’s comfortable.

Unsurprisingly, he only makes it a chapter in before he’s bored, before the gnawing restlessness at the back of his mind grows unbearable. With a dull sigh, he shoves the book to the side and folds his hands in his lap, one thumb running circles over the knuckle Pete had kissed. A cooling mug of tea at his side and a book with bending pages at the other, Patrick presses his lips into a thin line and stares out the window to look at the driveway, to look at the street.

Shouldn’t he be feeling something profound? After the tour, the adventure, the journey he went on, Patrick’s certain he should feel better than this. He should feel like he’s accomplished a goal; he should feel like all his toils in love and lust have paid off.

He should feel anything other than the silence in the room, the darkness of the night. The moment itself is ripe with reasons for emotions to take control— something he’s fought so hard to rarely let happen. 

The parting of could-be lovers.

His heart on the threshold and tail-end of a great and dangerous path.

A bold attempt to win over the man he loves.

If Patrick were a poet, he imagines he’d have a word for what he should feel. He imagines he’d have a bleeding heart, an emotion bright enough for Pete to see from across the country.

But, despite the pain and heartbreak he’s been through, Patrick only feels like he’s waiting.

And not knowing what he’s waiting for is one of the worst things in the world.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one's the last one! At last! 
> 
> I really hope you've been enjoying the journey so far and that the rest will be just as satisfactory to you!
> 
> Please comment and know that I look forward to seeing you all next time :) Have a wonderful day/night


	19. We're [not] Supposed to Have a Grand Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're not supposed to kiss, either

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's! The! Last! Chapter! Oh my god!!
> 
> Well, there's an epilogue after this but, plot-wise, this is pretty much it. You probably don't need a paragraph about how I feel right now, haha.
> 
> Seriously, though, thanks for reading and I hope this ending is everything you want :)

 

Two weeks pass in an endless silence Patrick would happily trade for a night of decent rest. Sure, he’s heard from Joe and Andy and the handful of friends in the city he’s landed in but it’s not enough to pull him from the stasis he’s settled into. Everything is a version of waiting, of anticipating the fall but landing only in reality’s net. His hopes have dulled into a state akin to colorblindness. Where once there was a fire of  _ me and Trick _ , there's only the soft spark of  _ you will never be hurt like that again.  _ A promise in a different light; an oath that was never defined.

He spends two weeks trying to find the definition, scrolling through old texts and praying for a new one to appear all the while convincing himself sending a message of his own would sound too much like a cry for help. He spends two weeks developing a routine-- sleeping on the couch, staring out the window and telling himself he’s not disappointed when only the sun arrives. He spends two weeks making tea to calm his nerves, ignoring the way the teabag feels when it brushes against his skin. He spends two weeks forgetting and memorizing anything that  _ two weeks  _ may remind him of.

At the start of the third week, his routine changes.

He’s used to staying up until five or six, watching the sun cover the world in shades of rose. But, this night, he falls asleep early. And he wakes at four a.m.

He wakes to the sound of his phone.

Half-awake, exhausted and hopeless, he knows who’s calling. 

“Pete?” He asks, slouched over onto his side, face pressed into a couch cushion. His voice is distorted but Pete’s, crushed by an emotion Patrick can’t understand, is worse.

“Hey,” he says, something like static or expectation interrupting the word. “Do you want to talk?”

Patrick goes rigid. The sentence means nothing and everything all at once.

“I…” He swallows, rolling onto his back and rubbing a hand over his face. With each second of stalling, he wakes up and prepares for whatever words follow his answer. “Sure. Yeah. Of course.”

“Awesome. Okay, so, let me explain.” Pete jumps into his side of the discussion unreservedly. It’s no doubt been practiced dozens of times, possibly scrawled onto napkins and receipts if the clarity of his voice is anything to go off of. Patrick would consider it unfair if he hadn’t been doing the exact same thing. “First, I guess, I need to apologize. I didn’t mean to give you radio silence or anything. I just… I needed time to collect my thoughts. I'm sorry it took so long.”

“Don’t apologize,” Patrick mutters. Pete pauses, laughs nervously, and continues.

“Okay, but, look. I don’t want things to be awkward between us. Out of all my worries— and there are a shit ton of them— that’s the one I see as most likely to happen. It’s also one of the ones I would like to avoid at all costs. If things don’t work out… If… If we try this thing and it doesn’t work out, I don’t want things to be awkward. I can handle the thought of this failing but what I can’t handle is the thought of losing you as a friend because of it. Do you get that?” Pete asks. 

Patrick frowns, nerves tingling with an electric fear. How many times over the tour did he think he’d lost Pete as a friend? How would it feel for that to be true?

He shuts his eyes and takes a breath. 

He’d do anything to prevent that from happening.

“Yeah,” he breathes into the phone. “Yeah, I get that.”

“No, like, really get it,” Pete pushes and Patrick can imagine the way he’s bouncing his leg or pacing a room. “I really want things to work out but I need you to consider the fact that they might not. You know how my relationships go and we both saw how things ended up between us over the tour. We can’t afford to be naive about this so… so with that in mind, do you still want to talk?” 

Pete’s rant ends with a click, a forced stop at the back of his throat like he wants to keep going but can’t bring himself to say what’s on his mind. Patrick’s torn between wishing for more words and feeling grateful that he stopped. 

For a moment, there, it sounded like Pete was trying to talk them both out of this. And that alone has Patrick’s heart racing.

He knows how Pete’s relationships go? Of course, he’s his best friend; he’s been front row to most, if not all, of the fires and flames. He’s pieced Pete back together and been the shoulder to cry on. He’s raged at all the idiots in the world who thought they could mess with Pete’s heart.

All the idiots, including himself. 

Because, like Pete said, they both saw how things went on the tour. And Pete’s giving him an opportunity to step out before anything like that happens again. To let go of any reason to feel afraid of this thing failing— whatever it turns out to be. To hold onto Pete as a friend for as long as he likes. To find someone who never left a mark on his skin or heart.

Patrick’s eyes— still shut, still hiding— relax and open, staring into the darkness of his home. 

He’s always known his answer, long before the question was ever asked.

“Yes,” he says, a breath and a promise. “I want to give this a chance. I've always wanted to give us a chance.”

Silence, an aching and horrible silence. Patrick goes cold down to his bones; he considers shutting his eyes again.

“Okay.” 

One word from Pete, one sound trapped in a sigh.

And then the call hangs up.

The phone is still pressed against Patrick’s cheek, still grasped in his sweaty hand, when the doorbell scares him into dropping it.

Time stops. Patrick’s frozen but he still stands, letting the thin blanket he’d been wrapped in fall to the floor. He’s not as tired as he was a few moments ago and he isn’t as confused as he should be. Before the door's even open, he knows who he’s going to see.

Pete’s shy smile and nervous stare stop his heart anyway.

“Hey,” Pete says, shoulders pulled halfway into a shrug. Patrick licks his lips, trying to keep his mouth from going dry. Pete’s dressed as if it isn’t the end of the night, the twilight zone between midnight and morning. Skinny jeans cling to his legs and a hoodie drapes dramatically over his thinner frame. It's the same costume he wears whenever he stands on a stage; skinny jeans and hoodies have always been part of his act.

But this outfit isn't as exact as the one Patrick stared at on tour. Pete’s smile and beat-up shoes? The hands shoved deep into pockets and the way he’s biting at the inside of his cheek? The lack of eyeliner? The curled tips at the ends of his bangs? 

This is Pete. This is real.

Patrick smiles back and it's nearly as soft as his own voice. “Hey.”

Pete’s grin eases and he nods. “I would have come at a more decent time but this was the earliest flight I could get after debating with myself all night a few days ago and I didn’t want to wait. I came here straight from the airport and I think the car I rented has a pretty full tank. It’s still running anyway. Do you… Do you want to take a ride with me?”

Patrick’s world sharpens into colors and textures of hope and contentment— the same emotions reflected in Pete’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, refusing to bite back the way his smile grows. “Yeah, of course.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Before meeting Pete, Patrick never considered himself to be an exciting person. He was always more subdued, more likely to skip class than act out in it. He never made the most exciting memories with the few friends from his high school and the memories he did consider worth sharing were all based on the times he snuck into the music room to gain a few extra seconds on the drums or guitars. 

It wasn’t until he was before Pete Wentz that everything shifted. Suddenly, he was dragged from behind a set of drums to a mic stand, something he’d never be able to hide behind. Suddenly, he was a singer but not a frontman, begging Pete to take the lights because Patrick never signed up for them. Suddenly, he was on his knees before one of the most amazing men he’d ever met and, suddenly, he was in love.

Just like breaking the norms he set for himself, being in love was nothing Patrick ever planned on. Still, a mix of the two has him pulling on his shoes in a dumbstruck fashion and following Pete out to the car. It’s small, clean and unlike the bus and stage they’ve grown so used to sharing.

They drive in silence for the first few minutes, Pete taking a street to nowhere and circling around the neighborhood as the time on the clock clicks on. 

“So,” Pete starts while on their third time driving past Patrick’s house, causing Patrick to jump in his seat and look to Pete with wary eyes, “the rule is that we both have to be honest. Half the shit we got into was because no one wanted to be honest.”

Patrick winces but nods all the same. “That’s fair.” 

Pete nods back and reintroduces silence into the conversation. Patrick takes a breath, shaky, and shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch seconds and minutes pass.

Finally, Pete speaks again. “How are you? Like, mentally. How have you been?”

“I’m—” Patrick cuts off, biting lightly on his tongue as Pete’s rule echoes in his mind—  _ be honest _ . He turns to watch the road passing by in the window as a million answers— a thousand thoughts— blizzard through his mind, each one vying to be in control. He shakes his head lightly, blinking and choosing the thought that feels right on his tongue. “I’ve been scared. Mostly alright but scared. I was mainly worried that you, you know, that you regretted saying—”

“That I love you?” Pete finishes the sentence before Patrick has to force himself to do it. The corners of Patrick’s lips pull up and he nods, glancing at Pete.

“Yeah. That.”

Pete laughs, warm enough for Patrick to turn his head entirely to face him.

“Oh, god, Patrick,” Pete says, flicking his eyes to Patrick’s and raising an eyebrow. “I’d never regret telling you the truth. What about you? Are you regretting it?”

“What? Oh, no,” Patrick says, looking back at the road in front of them. Empty and dark, perfect for a confessional conversation. “I’ve had a crush on you since forever and, well, I guess I fell… I fell in love with you pretty quickly so saying it and not having it shot down was… relieving, to say the least. You know, I, I always thought about telling you? And it was always either this huge dramatic daydream or a really horrible nightmare. I always thought I would wait until I knew for sure. I liked the idea of planning some sort of night out or date where things could be made  _ right _ , you know? But I guess the nightmare version stopped me. The version where… well, you know my insecurities as well as I do. I’m sure you can imagine.”

Pete stares straight ahead but Patrick still finds himself reaching for a hat that isn’t there, wishing he could hide from the words he impulsively spat out. He bounces his leg as Pete hums. The two avoid eye contact until Pete brakes for a stop sign, both glancing over at the same moment.

Pete’s lips, pressed into a thoughtful line, part slowly. “I wish I would have known. Then maybe your insecurities wouldn’t have taken such a hold and…” He trails off but Patrick shrugs the words away anyway.

“It’s fine,” he says, though they both know it’s not. “Was my own stupid mindset anyway.” 

Pete sighs and begins to drive, both searching for words in the silence around them.

It tears at Patrick’s skin— the quiet, the calm, the lack of comprehension on where they stand— and he pulls the first question from his mind, the one that’s been haunting him the longest.

“What do you think would have happened if we never started this?” He asks, unblinking as the road rumbles beneath them, a familiar sound that makes him feel stupid and brave all at once. “If we were just friends and never… never felt the need to change any of those boundaries?”

“Then we’d never be really happy.” Pete’s answer is immediate, almost rehearsed, and Patrick’s stomach twists as he wonders how long Pete’s pondered the same thing. He says it with such certainty Patrick’s ready to believe him without hearing the rest of his explanation; it’s the same way he’s lived most his life since meeting Pete. Still, unaware of Patrick’s faith in him, Pete continues. “I mean, we’d for sure be happier than we were when everything blew up but, I think, we wouldn’t have had the chance to fight for max happy.”

Despite memories of the blow-ups and the end of their tour, Patrick can’t help but smile at Pete’s wording. “Max happy?”

“Yeah, I see it as the best possible outcome. The happiest either of us could be.” Pete’s excitement eases Patrick into chuckling and looking over.

“Okay, and what does that look like to you?” he asks. Pete’s eyebrows furrow together and the car itself slows, bringing time's pace down with it.

“That night. The… The first time we ever did anything, when it all started. I think my max happy would have started if I just kept kissing you and didn’t… didn’t give you the chance to get on your knees,” Pete says, unashamed and unaware of the twisted embarrassment and excitement curling in Patrick’s guts at the words. “Fuck, we could have had it  _ all _ if I had just given it the chance. If we had confessed instead of hid, tried out a relationship without fear of anything. I think— No, I know we would have been the couple everyone hated. The one that could have the entire world if we wanted because, together, nothing can stop us. It’d be lazy mornings and waking up next to each other in a way that’s so different than every way we’ve done before. It’d be you staying with me every night and singing lullabies under your breath and knowing every word I write is for you. It’d be never wondering or worrying or fearing ever again. That’s my max happy.”

This time, when he’s done speaking, Pete does glance over, as if called by the glow Patrick’s certain his cheeks are giving off. He’s hot and shaking, heart racing because he can see Pete’s words so clearly. Waking up to lazy smiles, holding each other at night with nothing but contentment, fumbling through life together and laughing at the simple messes they’d create… He can see it all because he’s imagined it all before.

Before long, Pete interrupts his thoughts with a question Patrick should have seen coming. “What’s your version of max happy?”

Pete leaves the neighborhood as Patrick thinks. Patrick shuts his eyes as more cars— people racing to and from each other, an endless cycle of wanting what’s in the distance— appear.

He doesn’t need to think for long.

“Do you remember when we shared that stupid milkshake? It was all melted and mixed together and Andy thought it would poison us?” He asks. 

He can hear the curiosity in Pete’s voice, in time with the blinker for the car. “Yeah?”

Chocolate and strawberry dance through Patrick’s mind, the same way the ghost sensations of Pete’s hand on his knee and his breath on his cheek have done so often since. Each memory is a spark sent to warm his chest as he grins. “That was max happy.”

Pete’s silent for longer than Patrick’s thoughts deem necessary but, when he cracks his eyes open, all he sees is Pete’s wounded smile at the road ahead of them. 

“So we got pretty close,” he says. Patrick nods, shutting his eyes again.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing down painful memories of what happened after, the waitress and the lyrics Pete promised to write her. He focuses on now, on the happy they’re driving towards, the happy they’ll have to fight to create. “We got pretty close for a second.”

Another quiet falls but Patrick rests in it, refusing to force any sort of discussion that doesn’t need to happen right now. They had time to talk, time to fight on the bus and confess. They had space, space to ponder and assure themselves that everything will have been worth it.

Now, Patrick knows, they just need silence, no matter how he hates it. No words to dirty the air around them, no voices to speak of what could have been. No, they just need the silence. They just need each other.

Patrick matches his breaths to Pete’s, counting the other’s and mimicking it. In a car, the road rumbles to a different song, nearly silent but still just as soothing as Patrick’s sleep-deprived mind threatens to slip into unconsciousness.

Breathe in; breathe out. Patrick wonders where Pete would take him if he did sleep. Would he wake him? Or would he continue to drive, searching endlessly for somewhere they both can rest?

Too soon, the car stops and Patrick’s jerked out of his half-asleep concepts by the sound of Pete’s seat belt unbuckling. No one speaks. For a second, no one moves.

Breathe in; breathe out.

Patrick opens his eyes.

They’re at a diner, a neon display proudly shining into Patrick’s window with the claim of 24-hour service. A few cars dot around the parking lot and the five a.m. sun peeks over across the city.

Patrick tamps down his exhaustion and looks over to Pete with a tired confusion instead. “What…”

“Come on,” Pete says, grinning with a shaky confidence few are allowed to see. “Let’s go find max happy.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The inside of the diner is louder than Patrick might have expected— cooks shout at each other in the kitchen and the few patrons feel secure enough in the emptiness to chatter relentlessly— but it doesn’t pull any further words from him or Pete. The two take their seats with a gentleness better fit for a church or hospital, seated across from each other with matching anxiety on their faces. Pete orders for them when the waiter comes by, a boy with bags under his eyes and a stained apron. Soon, the two are supplied with coffee and the promise of a chocolate-strawberry milkshake.

Patrick cradles his mug as Pete dumps packets of sugar into his own. Another memory tugs at Patrick’s mind and lips, another grin encouraging him to speak.

“You know,” he says, soaking in the heat from the coffee and pretending it’s fuelling his bravery, “the first time I thought I had a chance with you was when you brought me that coffee. You kissed me on the cheek afterward. It was all very confusing.”

Pete pauses his sweetening of the coffee and glances up, eyes wide and smile wavery. “That was a bit before the milkshake thing, right?” When Patrick nods, Pete laughs nervously and drops the empty packet of sugar to the table. “Yeah, I guess you can say that was my way of flirting. But, at that point, I’d already decided you were off-limits so I tried to back off after that. It’s a horrible coping mechanism but when that waitress showed interest, it seemed the perfect way to forget about my own feelings.”

He doesn’t mean to but, at the mention of what happened after the milkshake— after his version of max happy—, Patrick bites down on his tongue hard enough for everything to become a shade of purple and blue. 

Fear rushes into his gut. It’s not panic, no, it’s crueler than that. It rests in his mind and veins, a weight making it hard to breathe as he looks over to the waiter preparing their shake. He’s young and pretty, dark eyes and a wry smile, and Patrick’s heart threatens to burst. Who’s to say that anything’s really changed? Who’s to say that this won’t end up exactly like that time? 

The memory of chocolate and strawberry sours with the foul taste of insecurity and bile on his tongue, reminding him why he had to take the harder path, why he had to feel like he never had a chance. What if this is all a mistake and Pete decides he can’t do this? What if “max happy” is a lie and Patrick’s doomed to a life of panic attacks and pain? 

With each thought, his hand inches closer to his wrist, a bad habit he’s yet to break. Break, god, he breath catches in his throat at the word. He can’t have another heartbreak; he won’t survive another rejection. He can’t go through this again, he can’t, he can’t, he  _ can’t _ .

His fingertips brush against his wrist— healed and pale and lacking something he used to need. 

He doesn’t realize he’s scratching at the skin until he feels Pete’s hand around his own and he turns to see the concern in Pete’s eyes.

“Hey,” Pete says, pulling Patrick’s hand back from his wrist. “I’m here with you. I’m not going to hurt you again.”

_ Again _

Patrick pulls away, clearing his throat and reaching for a hat that isn’t there-- another habit he hates.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says. Pete looks like he wants to argue so Patrick jumps into another topic before he can. “Anyway, what are we doing here? I get the max happy thing but… why?”

Pete’s mouth shuts. He shrugs, features easing into a less frustrated expression but still appearing just as tense as before. 

“Things started to go bad after that time at the diner. After you walked in on me and the waitress, everything started to shift. And I always thought if I could change one thing, I would…” he trails off, hands cutting through the air as he tries to explain. “Look, I acknowledge it’s not all my fault. God knows you’ve said it enough I have no choice to believe it but… I know what I did was, like, the catalyst for everything that came after. And, after I realized, I always wished I could change it.”

Patrick looks down, playing with his napkin and hating the number of times he’s gone red since waking. “I already told you, it was my own screwed up ideas and emotions. My own insecurity and overreactions did this. I mean, okay, maybe you did add to it with your… your mechanisms or whatever but it wouldn’t have gotten as far as it did if I'd been logical. Or maybe it would have, I don’t know.” He tosses down the napkin and looks up, still blushing but leaning forward and trying to make a point. “We may never know where we would be if anything happened differently. But what I do know is that you were right. We wouldn’t have had the chance to realize we needed to… to reach max happy or whatever. So, even though I wish I could take all of my reactions and actions back, I still think this is exactly where we’re supposed to be. Together. I mean, I wish that it was without the whole mending or healing bit. That we could have just skipped the lessons and consequences and ended up here together without a hitch. But we can't change that. No use trying.”

Patrick’s aware he barely makes sense; he knows he’s doing that thing where he rambles without hearing himself first. Pete stares, lips parted, and Patrick doesn’t think to explain himself until Pete’s already shaping his shock into a smile.

“Well, actually,” he says as if he understands because, of course, he understands. “That’s why we’re here.”

And, of course, Patrick doesn’t understand exactly what Pete means but he understands enough to go along with it anyway.

Besides, he doesn’t have much time to question it as the milkshake appears and Pete rushes to take the seat beside him. A straw makes its way into Patrick’s hand and Pete’s blinding smile makes its way into his vision.

“Try it,” Pete says in a low voice, unwrapping his own straw slowly. Patrick’s eyes narrow but he does as Pete says, dropping his straw into the drink and taking a hesitant sip. 

It’s…

It’s perfect. 

The strawberry and chocolate are flawlessly balanced, each one allowed a chance to make its point as it melts on Patrick’s tongue. It’s still a bit melted, still a bit warm, but this only adds a sweet bit of nostalgia to the flavor. A nostalgia for the first time he felt sure Pete could love him; a nostalgia for the hope he once had. 

He takes another sip, aware of the way exhaustion has lowered his defenses and lured a dampness into his eyes.

Nostalgia for a time that felt perfect. Nostalgia for max happy— something he didn’t know he could have. 

The shake splashes up at him as Pete tosses his own straw in, breaking Patrick from his thoughts as Pete’s chocolate eyes twinkle at him from a closer proximity than before. 

“You’re doing it wrong, Trick,” Pete says, a scripted tone in his voice but with a name that still sends shivers down Patrick’s spine. “We have to drink it together.”

Patrick’s eyebrows come together in confusion. What? Didn’t he just ask Patrick to try it? Why is he—

Oh.

A memory plays through Patrick’s mind, nostalgia and deja vu.

_ Oh _ .

Patrick wipes the chocolate-strawberry from his cheek and smirks at Pete, hoping he can remember his lines— lines he wrote, lines that never felt forced. “I wanted to make sure it was as special as you said it was going to be.”

Pete grins. He leans in closer, his breath on Patrick’s cheek and his lips hovering over his straw. “Well? Is it?”

Was it this nerve-wracking the first time? Was it this innocent?

Was it ever this easy for them?

Patrick smiles, as subtle as the thin layer of whipped cream left on top of their drink. 

“It’s perfect,” he says, breaking character to form a new one, a better one. “Try it with me?”

Pete blinks but his shock at the deviation from the script wears off quickly. He says nothing, merely wraps his lips around the straw and waits for Patrick to do the same.

There’s no hand on his knee and the booth is big enough for them both to have their own space. There’s no tension or expectation, no wondering about what this means or what will come next. It’s a milkshake between two best friends and, yet, it’s so much more than that.

As they drink together, smiles making it hard to properly use the straw, it's a scene from one of Patrick's favorite daydreams.

“You’re right, it is perfect,” Pete says, pulling back and licking his lips. “You wanna know why?”

Patrick knows why. Patrick knows Pete knows he knows why. Still, he bites down on his smile and asks. “Why?”

“Because,” Pete says, grinning like he can’t wait to tell the punchline to a joke, “I told them to make it with love.”

It’s not a joke. It’s not a tease or a taunt or meaningless word. It’s not a joke but an astonished laugh is the only response Patrick can give.

“So, is this… Are we on a date, now?” Patrick asks before he can stop himself, eyes darting from the milkshake to the other couples scattered across the diner. Pete copies his laugh from before.

“God, I hope so,” he says, drawing Patrick’s attention back to him. Patrick’s laugh is a bit more hysterical, a tad more delirious, the laugh of someone who can’t believe this isn’t a dream.

“I’m not supposed to stay out so late for dates,” he says. “It’s this rule of mine that I can’t be out past midnight for first dates. I’m not supposed to do that.”

Pete’s hand finds Patrick’s, holding on like they were made to hold each other. “Well, once upon a time, I thought I wasn’t supposed to love you so… maybe it’s a good time to go against what we think we’re supposed to do.”

It’s a logic Patrick’s never considered, one that’s never been allowed access into his mind. It’s something he relates to, a conflict he’s had for too long.

It’s a statement he has no reason to dispute.

His eyes cast around the diner, at the unknowing witnesses for the creation of his— of their— max happy. Time has crossed the boundary from late night to early morning. Businessmen and women hurry in with demands for coffee and ‘whatever’s quick’. Rebellious teens sneaking away from school with the early light of the sun hide in booths, menus propped up to hide their faces. Parents and couples; grandmothers and tourists. 

He looks deeper still, seeing cracks in the tables and taking in the flickering lights. Cooks in the back curse and a frazzled waitress struggles to stay awake. Someone in the back complains about the temperature of their meal; someone else flirts with the waiter who brought their shake.

Everything is perfectly ordinary, nothing like the dramatic daydreams Patrick told Pete he used to have.

Still, Patrick smiles and focuses on the boy next to him.

“You know,” he says, inching closer to Pete, “I don’t think we’re supposed to have any sort of grand confessions or kiss scenes in a place like this.”

Pete laughs, soft enough for only Patrick to hear, and leans in.

“Well,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper. “What a perfect time to start breaking the rules.”

Perhaps ‘not supposed to’ and ‘don’t want to’ aren’t always interchangeable ideas, Patrick thinks, in the moments before he shuts his eyes and leans in. Maybe it’s time to throw out the rules, like Pete says, and pay attention to every piece of him reaching for the max happy. 

Patrick’s max happy is sitting before him, reaching back at him.

Patrick’s max happy is Pete’s breath on his lips, in the middle of a nameless diner amidst people who could never guess what led up to this moment.

Patrick’s max happy is a place before chaos, a moment after quiet.

And the silence? The silence he always feared?

It explodes into a thousand songs the second Pete’s lips land on his own, a cacophony he has no wish to control.

Pete’s lips are warm against his own— a promise of forever, an oath of never again— and Patrick knows he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

He’s supposed to be in love and loved by Pete. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, god, it's done (almost). I hope that ending made up for... for basically everything that led up to it.
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!! The epilogue should be up soon, just a little "after-credits" moment (as I imagine it, anyway). I've loved hearing from all of you so far, please don't hesitate to come find me on tumblr as hum-my-name
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'll see you again for the last update soon :)


	20. I... Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, an after-credits scene. No real contribution to the plot, nothing but an attempt at further closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last update ever for this. Wow. Okay. What a journey and, honestly, thank god we all made it here intact (I hope)! 
> 
> Really, though, this is more self-indulgent than anything else. Just something short and sweet, like a peek into their lives a bit after the dust has settled. I'm not sure how well it turned out but I hope you enjoy it!

I  ~~ Am Not Supposed To ~~ Love You

 

It becomes imperative to Patrick that they accept things won’t magically heal themselves. Many more conversations take place after the one in the diner— an amount between too many and not enough. They’re easier than Patrick might have imagined, though, as if the hardest part was realizing those conversations needed to be had.

It’s nearly a game, over time, to wait for a silent moment to begin such a discussion, tossing out an opening sentence as if the dialogue was already halfway through.

“I still think this is all just temporary at times,” Patrick says while they’re stuck on the side of a road one day, Pete kicking at the flat tire of yet another rental car. “Like, I don’t know if I really earned this.” 

Pete pauses his kicking, foot still raised, and smiles like Patrick’s being endearing. “Well, I don’t know if anyone really earns anything in love or whatever. Otherwise, I’d be shit out of luck. And it wouldn’t explain how I got you, of course.”

When they’re in a cab on their way to Patrick’s place, a place that’s become home to both in ways they never expected, Pete begins his own confession with eyes fixed out his window. 

“While we’re talking about still feeling ways,” he says, though that conversation’s been done for at least an hour, “I guess I should admit I still have nightmares of hurting you.”

Patrick’s not as good at words as Pete is, not half as prepared as Pete had seemed. 

Still, they’re learning and honesty is better than false attempts at wittiness. 

Patrick takes Pete’s hand and holds it in his lap, stroking a thumb across Pete’s knuckles.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says, he swears. “We’ll work through it together.”

And Pete smiles.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ We’ll work through it together _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Faint streaks of light tug across the morning sky, peeking in through curtains at the two boys tangled together on a bed of messy sheets. Another day greets them; another night slips away. Another day of another year, a year of fading fears and heightened hopes— a year to fix the scars the last year left. Another hour, another day, another forever to share.

Somewhere in the hotel room, a cell phone rings. It lasts a handful of seconds before a dark-haired head lifts from the bed to surrender with a grumbled “hello?”

Patrick rolls over, whining from the loss of warmth against his back. Pete brushes his free hand across Patrick’s arm, smiling down at his tired blinks as he speaks into the phone.

“Okay, yeah. An hour, right? … Okay, we’ll be down… Yeah, at that time, when else? … Oh, screw off, I don’t— … Fine, I’ll tell him. See you in a bit.” He groans and then closes the phone with a dull little snap. “That was Joe. He told me to stop answering your phone.”

“Time to leave?” Patrick asks, rubbing his eyes with a yawn. 

“In an hour." Pete smiles— he’s always smiling these days— and pokes at Patrick. “You know what we can do in an hour?”

Patrick tosses an arm over his face. A year ago— a tour ago— he would have torn those words apart in an attempt to accept the dirty meaning beneath them. He would have fallen into the trap with a shaky smile; he would have been setting the trap himself.

But that was a year ago, a tour ago. A different world completely.

“We can sleep,” he says. “Or, I can sleep. You can start packing.” 

Typically, Pete would fight this. He’d beg and whine and pull at Patrick, a childish light in his voice and lips. When Pete does nothing, Patrick moves his arm to glance over at him. “Pete?”

Pete’s eyes are intense, his smirk playing the part of every desire he has yet to say.

“Sorry, I know you hate hearing this but, _fuck_ , Patrick. Your  _ voice _ ,” he says. “You have no idea what it does to me.” 

Patrick blinks, resisting the urge to clear his throat. Now that Pete’s pointed it out, the gravelly tone of his voice appears to taunt him. He should have expected it, of course. It’s morning and he’s just woken up. 

And so has Pete.

“Mother _ fucker _ ,” Patrick says, collapsing onto the bed as Pete laughs— a deeper tone, a tone that sends shivers down Patrick’s spine now that it’s been pointed out. “That’s cheating.” Pete continues to laugh.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sorry,” he says, adding more chills as he walks his fingers across the bare skin of Patrick’s back.

Patrick’s still waking up but, he decides, he doesn’t mind trading sleep for whatever Pete has planned. He licks his lips, trying to formulate a proper response. His head turns to the side, looking into Pete’s darkened eyes— the warmest shade of brown, as warm as Pete’s palm when he presses it against Patrick’s cheek. Patrick sighs and presses against it, the calluses on Pete’s hand as familiar as the ones Patrick calls his own. 

“Are you going to do something, then?” Patrick asks with a smirk he’s fashioned over the past year, one that feels as natural as a smile. “I’m awake and it’s all your fault.”

“Anything else that’s my fault?” Pete asks, every dirty intention laced with the words. Patrick shrugs. 

“No,” he says. “Not yet. Not as easy as it was a year ago.” 

Pete doesn’t wince at the mention of the past and Patrick doesn’t feel guilty for bringing it up, something they’ve only just recently been working on. Conversation after conversation has eased them away from it. Sure, they’re not numb but they’re better. 

Pete’s hand slips lower, tickling over the base of Patrick’s spine and playing with the hem of his sweats. Patrick’s breath hitches.

“Stay still, baby,” Pete whispers. “Let me take care of you.”

Patrick moves only to help Pete as he pulls his sweats down, cold air hitting Patrick’s bare skin and causing a blush to cover his face. No matter how many times they do this, the exposure always leaves him stammering in all the best ways. He barely has time to recognize the warmth in his groin before Pete’s hands are on his ass, kneading softly and making him whine. Patrick squirms, fingers and nails biting into the sheets beneath him.

“Look at you,” Pete says, his voice dark enough for Patrick’s gentle writhing to increase. “Perfect.”

_ Perfect.  _ A second wave of blushing stains Patrick’s cheeks, a rosy shade that grows bright red when he pushes back against Pete’s hands despite his better judgment. 

“You’re just saying that,” he says, distracting himself from the feeling of his cock— hard and swelling further with each squeeze of Pete’s hands— pressing against the mattress. His hips jerk forward in small movements, tiny thrusts seeking friction. He spits out the words before his voice can betray him with a moan. “You plan on doing something else?”

“Sure thing, Trick,” Pete says, hands pausing for the shortest second, pulling back as if he’d made a mistake. Patrick turns, revealing his flushed state and heavy breaths.

A second passes, just long enough for Patrick to smile. “Then get on with it, you—”

Patrick’s words are devoured by Pete’s lips on his, a hand in his hair to keep Patrick at the right angle for the sudden and desperate kiss, tongues and teeth clashing from the ferocity. Patrick reacts without a thought, pulling Pete closer and delighting in the press of his fingers against Pete’s hot skin. His tongue darts across Pete’s, sparks and fireworks lighting up behind Patrick’s eyes at the sensation. 

All this time and every kiss still feels like the first. 

“Patrick,” Pete murmurs, his breath searing against Patrick’s lips. “My Trick.”

Patrick grins and pulls back before the smile has the chance to distort the kiss. 

“I thought you said you planned on doing something?” Patrick says, turning to lay on his side. The rough fabric of Pete’s sweats brushes across his cock and Patrick groans, grinding against Pete’s leg. Pete’s erection presses back against him as he moves in time with Patrick, rolling his hips in ways that should never be considered legal. Patrick gasps when Pete shifts just enough for their cocks to brush, the thinnest layer of fabric separating them. It’s not enough, not nearly enough.

They’re like teens rubbing off against each other but the light of day steals any illicit imagery from Patrick’s mind. They’re like friends with too much time and boredom but Pete’s eyes on him take away that thought, too. 

They’re like everything Patrick’s ever dreamed of; they’re like everything Pete swore they would be. 

Patrick kisses Pete once more, forever taking advantage of the fact he can, as his hips pick up speed and heat pools around his crotch. It’s intimate, more gentle than the first even if they’re both so close to losing control. 

Pete’s the one to pull back this time, his hand finding Patrick’s face again and a thumb pressing against the singer’s lower lip. Patrick bites down lightly on it, his tongue flicking against the tip as moans and whimpers escape his throat. Pete responds to each sound with a groan of his own, a curse and Patrick’s name. His other hand presses at Patrick’s back, forcing them closer together and, for a second, Patrick swears he sees stars.

“Pete, Pete, fuck,” he breathes a few moments later, his voice a whine. “I’m close, god, I’m close, Pete, please.”

Pete’s own eyes are shut when Patrick reaches between them, stroking Pete through his sweats. If they had more time, if Pete were undressed and they could do this properly, Patrick would hold them both in his hand and stroke them together, in time with nothing and with his palm and Pete’s cock as his friction. They’d be as close as they could be, heat and sweat and kisses and promises filling the air the way it does now. He imagines, when they finish this tour and they head back home, they’ll have every chance to get off in every way and the thought alone— the possibilities, the images— is enough to have Patrick tensing and crying out at the warmth that floods his body.

He comes with a hoarse shout, hot and fast and dirty. He whines as Pete keeps thrusting, keeps providing a friction Patrick both craves and hates in the aftermath of his orgasm. Instinct and muscle-memory from too many moments like this lead his hand into Pete’s pants, groaning at the weight of Pete in his palm. It only takes a few strokes, a few twists that Patrick knows Pete likes, before Pete spills into his hand with a guttural cry that only sounds like Patrick’s name. 

A post-orgasmic haze covers Patrick’s vision and rests on his tired limbs but he still pushes forward to connect his lips with Pete's. They fit together like storm clouds against the sky, a perfect beauty in ways they never dared to imagine before. A gentle thunder and lightning. A raging crash of love and contentment.

“My Trick,” Pete says against his lips. “My perfect, golden Trick.” 

Patrick smiles as he falls back to the pillows, curled up against Pete’s chest with warmth surrounding him. 

“You gonna call me that forever?” Patrick asks, nothing other than curiosity in his words. Pete laughs as he wraps Patrick up in his arms.

“I never did tell you what it means, did I?” He brushes a hand through Patrick’s hair. “Trick, that is.”

Patrick pulls back, glaring half-heartedly at Pete. 

_ Trick _ . A name he hated, a name he thought didn’t belong to him.

A nickname, now, that he’s learning to love, even if it’s taken longer than he’d like.

“You don’t need to tell me,” he says with a sigh. “Just let me sleep for a bit before we have to—”

“It means you’re special,” Pete interrupts, settling Patrick back down. “I always only ever called you Trick because I knew there was something special about you. Sure, I guess, it became a way to differentiate between the separate… relationships I had with you. You know, the friend and the lover. But I never saw you as anyone other than my Patrick. My Trick. The best friend… No, the best  _ person _ I’ve ever had the chance to meet. Trick was just a nickname so, when we were together like that, I could… I could pretend there was a world where I was yours. But I never saw you as anyone else.” 

Pete’s voice grows smaller with each word but Patrick’s heart fills with emotions he didn’t know existed. Every time he thinks he loves Pete as much as possible, the world reveals another reason to double the amount.

“I’m sorry,” Pete says suddenly. “That’s weird.”

“Not weird,” Patrick argues. “It’s sweet. In an… okay, in a kinda weird way but it wouldn’t be you if it wasn’t a bit unique. Besides, always better than my habits.”

Pete groans. “I wish you would stop bringing that up. It’s over with.” 

Patrick shrugs but his words are cut off by a yawn. Pete’s expression, tense with emotion, eases when he sees it.

“God, sorry. I should stop talking,” he says. "You're probably annoyed with all the chaotic conversations I start when you're trying to sleep." 

Patrick only shakes his head.

“Never,” he says, his voice more soothing than any song he's ever sung. He meets Pete's eyes, smiling like he never has before. “I’ve never been a fan of silence.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are!! Thank you for reading this through to the end, whether you began at the beginning or joined along the way! I love each and every one of you :)
> 
> I have so many stories planned so I hope you stick around for whenever they start coming out. I've loved all your comments and really hope you've loved this story, as well.
> 
> Have a fantastic day/night


End file.
